Smallbone Deceased (18 page)

“Fine,” said Henry.

He tilted his chair at a convenient angle and resumed his interrupted train of thought. Fortunately, the bald man was not talkative, and after a bit, silence descended on the little room, broken only by the purring of the gas fire, and ticking of the gold-and-green time clock in the corner.

Security-mortgage-lien-bill of sale-pledge-collateral. How could a man mortgage something which he hadn't got? That was what it boiled down to. What sort of security could he have offered? It must have been good security, thought Henry, if the borrower only had to pay three and a half per cent for his loan. You didn't get risky money at that rate of interest.

He took his problem with him when he went on his round at half-past three, down the corridors of crates and boxes, under the great unwinking night lamps. It was with him as he tested the automatic alarms on the two steel-roller-covered entrance doors; and it was still no nearer to an answer when he got back and found the bald man brewing one more in an endless series of cups of tea.

He put it to him. “How can you raise money on something you haven't got?” he said.

“Search me,” said the bald man. “I'm not a borrowing man.”

Bohun felt that he was reaching a stage of mental exhaustion and nullity. He took out a well-thumbed copy of the
Plain Speaker
and was soon adrift on the strong tide of Hazlitt's prose.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the bald man leave the room and noticed that it was exactly half-past four.

“Cloud rolls over cloud; one train of thought suggests and is driven away by another; theory after theory is spun out of the bowels of his brain, not like the spider's web, compact and round, a citadel and a snare, built for mischief and for use—”

“‘A citadel and a snare,'” said Bohun, “‘built for mischief and for use.' There's glory for you.” He saw that the bald man was still absent, and the hands of the clock said nearly a quarter to five.

“Hell,” said Bohun uneasily, “I do hate this sort of thing.” He put the book back in his pocket and tilted his chair forward so that he could see the doorway reflected in the glass over the fireplace. He felt with his toe for the concealed, spring-loaded switch.

The door opened softly and a young man came in. They all look so alike, thought Bohun. Young, tough, white, boxer's face. Black hair, white silk scarf, old battledress. This one carried a gun and looked as if he knew how to use it.

Bohun let him get three paces in the room before he kicked the switch. A steel shutter came down across the door, thudding softly home against its counterbalance. Bohun got cautiously to his feet and said with almost ludicrous earnestness: “Think before you do anything rash. I'm certain you wouldn't like the police to find you locked in here with a dead body.”

“Open that unprintable door,” said the young man.

“It's no good,” said Bohun. “I can't really. Here's the switch. No deception. You can see for yourself. It just works one way, to drop the door. It can only be opened now from the outside, with a proper key, when the police get here.”

“
When
they get here,” said the young man nastily.

“That's pretty soon, really,” said Bohun. “The same switch sounds the alarm at Cloak Lane and Bishopsgate, and drops the outer doors. They can get cars here in three minutes. Your pals are all in the bag, too.”

“Wonderful thing, science,” said the young man.

Bohun saw that everything was going to be all right and sat down again.

“I've got a good mind to bash you, all the same,” said the young man.

“It wouldn't do you any good really, would it?” said Bohun. “Look here, shall I give you a tip?”

“I'm not fussy,” said the young man.

Bohun walked over to the window, which was heavily barred, and raised the sash. The young man came and stood beside him.

“I wasn't suggesting that you could get out,” said Bohun, “but I happen to know that there's an old ditch down there—it's a drain really—six foot of nettles and then God knows how many feet of mud.”

“Thanks,” said the young man. He pushed his gun through the bars, and they heard the soft thud as it fell into the darkness. “It wasn't loaded. Very civil of you, all the same. Anything I can do by way of exchange?” He sat down on the chair recently vacated by the bald man.

“Well,” said Bohun, “perhaps you can tell me the answer to a question that's been puzzling me all evening. How can a man raise money on something he hasn't got?”

The young man thought for a moment. “That's dead easy,” he said. “Pawn the same article twice. It's the quickness of the hand deceives the eye. My old man used to do it with cufflinks. It's quite a lark … Oh, here come our feathered friends … Remind me to tell you about it some time.”

It was half-past five when Bohun got home. A City police car gave him a lift as far as the end of Chancery Lane. As he walked up the Rents the answer came to him in all its stunning and beautiful simplicity.

“Pawn the same thing twice.”

Bohun climbed into bed. For the first time in years he slept for a full three hours.

Chapter Thirteen

… Friday …

A VERY PUISNE MORTGAGE

But here a grievance seems to lie
All this is mine but till I die
I can't but think 'twould sound more clever
“To me and to my heirs for ever.”

Lines inserted by Pope in Swift's
Imitation of the Sixth Satire of Horace

Friday was quite a day.

Bohun spent the first hour of it down in the firm's strong room. This was the kingdom of Sergeant Cockerill, and like everything about the sergeant, it was neat and well-ordered and artistically efficient.

The deeds and papers which, in a normal solicitor's office, lie about in insubordinate bundles loosely constrained with red tape, had been strait-jacketed into card and canvas folders; and these, in their turn, stood dressed by the right on shelves of slab slate. Occupying the serrefile rank, two paces to the right and two paces to the rear, stood the Ledger of Wills, the Ledger of Securities and the Ledger of Deeds. It was through this last book that Bohun was searching.

“Was there any particular deeds that you had in mind, sir?” inquired Sergeant Cockerill.

“Well—no. Not really. I know the sort of thing I'm looking for, but I don't know exactly what it is. I shall probably recognize it when I see it, if you see what I mean.”

“If it's any help to you,” said Sergeant Cockerill, “you'll find all the deeds indexed under the name of the client and cross-indexed under the name of the partner who deals with them.”

“Yes, that should help,” said Bohun. “I know it was Abel Horniman.”

Sergeant Cockerill looked up rather sharply at this, but said nothing.

Bohun also paused in his search and for a moment there was silence in the vaulted tomb like room with its door of eight-inch steel.

“You were very attached to him, weren't you?” said Bohun.

The sergeant did not pretend not to understand him.

“Yes,” he said. “More than thirty years I knew him. He was a good man to work for. I'd say he was a great man.”

This struck a chord all right. Bohun had to think for a moment, then he remembered that Miss Cornel had used almost exactly the same words.

“I was his batman in 1914,” went on Sergeant Cockerill. “That surprises you. You didn't know that Mr. Horniman went to France in the Gunners. He was too old for such capers, really: but go he would. Lucky for him, I always thought, lie got pneumonia on top of a sharp nip of muscular rheumatism. It was the damp and the cold. Between 'em, they nearly did for him. But I reckon they saved his life, nonetheless. He had a medical board and got taken out of the army. We were all sorry to see him go. Yes, a great man.”

For all practical purposes the sergeant was now talking to himself.

“He was waiting outside the depot on the day I was demobbed. I hadn't told him. He'd found out. That was the sort of man he was. He stood me a drink and offered me a job. Well, that was longer ago than I care to think of.” The sergeant turned about abruptly. “I must go and make them their teas. I can't trust that young Charlie with it. Sixteen years in this mortal vale and he still hasn't learned to warm the pot.”

When the sergeant had gone, Bohun did not immediately resume his search of the register. An illusive memory was teasing him. He thought it was something to do with Cockerill. He couldn't put his finger on it. After a bit he gave up trying.

Using the index it took him surprisingly little time to trace the deeds he wanted. He made a careful note of dates and parties on a piece of paper and then turned to the deed containers on the shelf. They were numbered to correspond with the ledger and he soon had his hand on the right envelope. It was empty except for an old deed receipt. Some minutes later he was upstairs in his room talking to John Cove.

“Do you remember the sale of Longleaf Farm?”

“It is inscribed on the tablets of my heart,” said John. “It was the very first piece of conveyancing that I did in this office.”

“I thought I made out your initials on the deed receipt. Can you tell me about it?”

“What do you want to know?” said John. “The vendor, if my memory serves me, was one Daniel Jedd. The purchaser, a Major Wright. If you're passionately interested I'll get out the file. Here you are. It was quite a straightforward title. Indeed, I suspect that's why Abel gave it to me as a first effort. It started with—yes—three straight conveyances. The first in 1880. Another in 1901 and the third to Ezekiel Jedd in 1920. He settled it by his will and died in 1925. Then there's a vesting deed—vesting it in his son Amos as life tenant. Amos died in 1935. Another vesting deed, in Daniel Jedd, who, without further ado, barred his entail and sold as absolute owner in 1938. Bob's your uncle.”

“And it was the same property all the way through. All the way from 1880 onward, I mean.”

“To the last blade of grass.”

“Then,” said Bohun, “why weren't the first three conveyances handed over when it was finally sold out of this office?”

“Yes, I remember. Abel did say something about that. I can't remember what. The root of title we offered was the 1926 vesting deed.”

“That was all right as far as it went,” said Henry. “But you'd have thought that the earlier deeds would have been handed over too, or else” – he pointed to the draft conveyance – “the usual acknowledgment given for their safe custody.”

“Now that you mention it, that does seem a bit odd. Are you absolutely certain they weren't handed over?”

“Absolutely. The conveyances of 1880, 1901 and 1920 were never marked out of the deeds register here at all. And look—here's a copy of the schedule. It starts with the vesting deed of 1926.”

“So it does,” said John, scratching his head. “Why do you suppose Abel wanted to keep the early deeds—he never struck me as the type who would go in for homemade lamp shades.”

“I don't think he kept them for lamp shades,” said Bohun slowly. “I think—oh, that's probably for me. Hullo. Yes, Bohun speaking.”

“We've traced that bank account,” said Hazlerigg's voice. “In view of what you told me early this morning I thought you might find it interesting. The quarterly payments were made to the Husbandmen's League Friendly and Loan Society. Their office is in Lombard Street.”

“Fine,” said Bohun. “I'll go straight along.”

“I take it that hunch you had is working out then.”

“Very nicely.”

“Keep me posted,” said Hazlerigg, and rang off.

“What's it all about?” said John.

“My idea, roughly,” said Bohun, “is that Abel Horniman forged a set of title deeds. Well—not forged, really. That's the wrong word. He effected a little rearrangement. Something after this style. I think he got hold of three solid—looking and obviously genuine conveyances—just for the sake of argument let's say the three first conveyances of Longleaf Farm, that we've just been talking about. Those particular ones were very suitable because they hadn't got a plan on them—just a description. I think he took the last one—the 1920 conveyance, the one to Ezekiel Jedd, removed the last page, and sewed in a new one that he'd written out himself, in law script—that was the sort of thing he did rather well, wasn't it?”

“Oh, yes. He wrote a beautiful copperplate. The perfect practical conveyancer.”

“It stuck in my mind that Mr. Birley said something of the sort at the firm's dinner. Well, I think the page he faked up
had
a plan on it. Furthermore, and here I'm guessing again, I think it was a plan of Abel's own farm—Crookham Court Farm. Then all he had to do was to draw up a conveyance purporting to be by Ezekial Jedd to himself—again with a plan of Crookham Court Farm—perfectly open and above board—take it down to the Stamp Office and have it stamped, and there you are.”

“It sounds like falling off a log,” said John, “but—I may be being stupid—why did he want a second set of title deeds to Crookham Court Farm? He must have acquired a perfectly good set when he bought the place in 1936.”

“Well,” said Henry. “He had to hand over the real deeds to the National Provincial Bank when he mortgaged his farm to them, way back in 1937. Don't you think a spare set must have been quite useful when he wanted to raise the wind again in 1943?”

“Viewed in that light,” agreed John, “a chap could hardly have too many sets of title deeds. Where are you going?”

“Down to the Husbandmen's League to make sure. Coming?”

“Might as well,” said John. “I can see that I shan't be allowed to concentrate on my Final until everything has been cleared up in Chapter Sixteen. How did you get on to this particular swindle?”

“It's known as the cufflink trick,” said Bohun. “If we run we shall get that bus. You pawn one cufflink twice. I started to have it explained to me by an expert last night.”

III

The Husbandmen's League occupied a floor in the building that housed Mr. Bohun Senior. There was nothing markedly agricultural about them apart from their name and their seal, a design showing two blades of corn (thrift) crossed in front of a sickle (hard work). They were, in fact, a collection of long-headed believers in private enterprise who lent their money at three and a half per cent to farmers. Hazlerigg had already been on the telephone to them and Bohun and Cove were shown straight into the office of the general manager. Mr. Manifold was a baldish West Countryman, constructed basically on the lines of a barrage balloon. The worries of the morning had emptied a pocket or two of the gas out of his fabric.

“I hope,” he began, “that there's nothing wrong. We heard, of course, of Mr. Horniman's death. Very sad.” He assumed a mournful expression momentarily. “We had anticipated that probate would be exhibited in the normal way, and the executor would have continued the quarterly payments. The next one falls due on the first of June.”

Bohun decided that brutality would probably get him through quickest in the end.

“I don't doubt,” he said, “that the interest payments will be kept up, for the time being anyway. But I am afraid I must break it to you that the security for the loan is illusory.”

“Illusory?” Mr. Manifold deflated sharply, then recovered and went rather red, exactly as if he had received a badly-needed replenishment of helium. “Perhaps you would be good enough to explain how the security of two hundred acres of freehold farming land can be illusory?”

“Have you got the deeds here?”

“I have asked for all the papers to be brought up,” said Mr. Manifold stiffly, “and here is Mr. Fremlinghouse—our legal adviser.”

Mr. Fremlinghouse, who was very tall, had a light mustache, and wore horn-rimmed glasses, advanced and laid a packet of deeds in front of Mr. Manifold. Mr. Manifold untied the red tape and shuffled them over to Bohun.

Bohun only needed to look at the first one to be certain. He pushed it across to John Cove. “February 15th, 1880. Indenture of Conveyance. Henry Balderstone and Others to John Pratt. Longleaf Farm in the County of Kent.”

“The name was changed later, as I remember it,” said Mr. Fremlinghouse.

“It certainly was,” agreed Bohun grimly.

Passing over the next deed he opened the conveyance of 1920. It was engrossed bookwise, on clean-looking parchment, in the usual beautiful characterless law copperplate. Bohun looked carefully at the final page. John Cove and Mr. Fremlinghouse looked over his shoulder.

“You can see the join quite easily,” he said. “The last page inside the back sheet. It's been sewn in behind the fold, and the hinge has been covered by that transparent adhesive stuff-map-makers' tape, I believe it's called.”

“Gracious goodness,” said Mr. Fremlinghouse. “Now so it has. I don't think I examined it particularly—not from that point of view at least. It's quite a common practice to repair deeds with that transparent tape. What is your idea—that the last page is an insertion—a substitution?”

“That's it,” said Bohun.

“Now I do like that,” said John. He had his finger on the clause describing the property. “Neat but not gaudy: ‘formerly known as Longleaf Farm, but now and for some years past known as Stancomb Farm in the County of Kent.'”

Mr. Fremlinghouse was examining the three deeds with a professional interest that almost bordered on enthusiasm.

“No plan in the first two deeds, I see,” he observed.

“No. Just a schedule of tithe numbers with their acreages and the usual interminable descriptions: ‘All those several fields or closes of arable and pasture land and land covered by water, together with the messuages hereditaments buildings etc. etc.' I wonder they troubled to write it all out. I'm certain no one ever bothers to read it.”

“I imagine,” said Mr. Fremlinghouse, “that it's a relic of the days when you got paid for your conveyancing by the yard. I see your man has simply carried on from the last page of the genuine conveyance—quite so—and inserted the words: ‘As the same is delineated on the plan annexed hereto.' Then he supplied his own plan. Wait a minute, though. What about a comparison of the schedules?”

“The total acreage was about the same,” said Bohun. “The old deeds gave tithe numbers. He changed them to Ordnance Survey numbers to correspond with his own farm.”

“Beautiful. Beautiful,” said Mr. Fremlinghouse.

“Really, Fremlinghouse,” said Mr. Manifold. “Isn't this exactly what we pay you to protect us from?”

“No conveyancer can protect you from deliberate fraud,” said the solicitor. “On the face of it, these deeds confer a proper title to Stancomb Farm on one Ezekiel Jedd. They're properly stamped and appear to be properly executed. Then we have another excellent deed conveying the same property from Ezekiel Jedd to Mr. Horniman. What more could anyone ask for?”

Another thought struck Mr. Manifold. “What about our value?” he said. “If Stancomb Farm doesn't exist, what did he value? Or is his report a forgery, too?”