Thursday 19th December 1929, York
The train from Newcastle to York took just over an hour. Clara, as a lady of independent means, travelled first class and breakfasted on board. As she tucked into a poached egg on a breakfast muffin and a pot of Earl Grey tea, watching the snowy landscape of County Durham and North Yorkshire pass by, she considered how different her train journey to Newcastle had been only four months earlier. She’d arrived in the northern city in mid-August, the height of summer (on her librarian’s salary, she could only afford a third-class ticket then) and the atmosphere in the poorly ventilated train carriage had been stifling. She’d wiled away her time looking at a poster for Whitley Bay with a picture of a young woman dressed in a bathing suit, about to take a dip in the North Sea.
She hadn’t realised then that within a few days she’d be investigating a fire in a picture house in the same seaside town. She also hadn’t realised that she was about to become quite a wealthy woman. Clara’s parents were very wealthy – her father, Sir Randolph Vale, was a famous self-made City banker, and her mother, Lady Vanessa Vale, hobnobbed with blue bloods who smirked at her nouveau riche roots behind her back. However, Clara had always wanted to make it on her own, and had eschewed the stipend her parents offered her after she graduated from Oxford University, seeing it as a bribe to keep her under their control. Neither of them approved of Clara actually working for a living. Which was why it was such a relief when her uncle’s bequest left her financially independent and geographically distant from her family in London.
Clara had been making the journey from Newcastle to York once every two weeks for the last two months – ever since her accountant, Andrew Ridpath, had been admitted to a convalescent home there. Andrew’s recovery from an operation to remove his spleen, after he’d been shot trying to defend her, had been a slow one. At first, he’d looked like he was on the mend, but then, after a couple of weeks, he developed blood poisoning which brought him – once again – to the brink of death. Clara had sat by his bed every day at the Royal Victoria Infirmary in Newcastle as he drifted in and out of consciousness. Eventually though, he started to recover, but not enough to be released home.
Clara along with Andrew’s brother, Stan, had looked around for a suitable convalescent home. Although in York, and an hour away, St Anne’s – a former VAD hospital for ex-servicemen – seemed the most appropriate, and with Andrew’s agreement, he was transferred there. Both he and Clara hoped he would be home in time for Christmas, but doctors were being cautious and recommended he remain until at least after New Year.
It was half past nine when the train pulled into the station in a billow of steam and Clara, wearing her thickest winter coat and a bright green scarf and matching beret, stepped onto the platform. She hailed a taxi the moment she exited the station and asked to be taken to St Anne’s.
A quarter of an hour later she was walking into St Anne’s solarium where male patients – in wheelchairs or sitting in comfortable loungers – were soaking up the winter sun. Andrew, his auburn hair tamed and combed as if he were ready for the office, was smoking a cigarette. He smiled, broadly, when he saw Clara walking towards him with a brown paper bag in hand.
‘Clara! I hope those are my favourite.’
Clara matched his smile and sat down in a wicker chair opposite, opening the bag to reveal some ripe Duchess pears. ‘I had to pay an arm and a leg for them!’
Andrew grinned. ‘I’ll deduct it from your next bill. Speaking of which, has Stan …?’
Clara nodded, not in the least offended that he was talking about money so early in their conversation. He was, after all, her accountant. ‘He has, thank you. And all paid up. So …’ she said, accepting a cup of tea from an auxiliary nurse passing with a trolley, ‘how are you feeling?’
Andrew pulled the lapels of his dressing gown closer together. ‘Oh, not too bad. But not fighting fit either. I’ve been out in the grounds for a walk. Down to the river and back. Flattened me for the rest of the day.’ He took a drag on his cigarette and exhaled slowly.
Clara cocked her head sympathetically. ‘Well, that’s progress. Not long ago, you could barely walk to the bathroom on your own. Give it a bit more time.’
Andrew sighed. ‘Don’t have much of a choice, do I?’
Clara smiled at him, gently. ‘You’ll be top of your game in no time.’
‘Enough about me,’ he said, stubbing out his cigarette. ‘I’ve got a bit of news for you. About your investments. Pass me that folder, will you?’
Clara passed him the manila folder in question, positioned on top of a copy of the Financial Times whose front-page banner headline declared: Wall Street Storm Threatens British Banks. Andrew nodded to the headline. ‘I expect you’ve heard what’s going on in America. ’Bout seven weeks ago their stock market collapsed. Billions lost. And it looks like it’ll hit us next. The first waves already have.’
‘Yes,’ said Clara, ‘I had a letter from Mother the other day. Father and Antony are both very worried. Antony’s broker pals are in a tizz.’
Andrew nodded sagely. ‘I’m not surprised. From what I’ve heard of your brother he’s been making some very high-risk investments. And as for your father, you hope the bank will withstand the storm, but big-name establishments in America are going under.’
‘And how will it affect me?’ asked Clara.
Andrew pursed his lips. ‘That’s what I want to talk to you about. Stan and I have been discussing how to mitigate all this for our clients, you included. As you know, the bulk of your Uncle Bob’s estate was in stocks and shares. Stan and I have been watching the market. We’ve got a partner firm in New York – they look after investments for us there; we look after things for them here. They’ve been jittery since August and by the end of September suggested we should liquidate some investments and put them into something more stable. As you know, that’s just when I moved here to convalesce. But Stan’s been on top of it. So, we sold your US stocks and have put the cash in a high-interest account. But …’ he nodded again to the FT headline ‘… it looks like Sterling is about to take a dive. And very soon. So, what we’d like to do, with your permission, is to put it into property. We’re more hopeful that in a few years when things settle down, that will hold its value. And in the meantime, you can earn some rent.’
Clara raised an eyebrow. ‘Interesting idea. What do you have in mind?’
He opened the folder and took out a photograph of a line of Victorian-era terraced houses. ‘Armstrong’s Armaments are selling off some of their staff housing in the West End of Newcastle – Elswick and Lemington, specifically. They’re cutting down on their staff levels as – for now at least – it doesn’t look as if we’ll be heading into another war, thank God. So, some property has come on the market. How do you feel about being a landlady?’
Clara blinked a few times to take it all in. ‘I have never given it a moment’s thought. I can’t say I’d be keen to be hands-on with it. I can’t see myself going door to door collecting rent or fixing plumbing.’
Andrew laughed. ‘I can’t see you doing that either. You can appoint a manager to deal with all of that. Or we can appoint someone for you. You’d just be the property owner. A meeting maybe twice a year with the manager would suffice. So, what do you think?’
Clara leaned back in her chair and sipped her tea. ‘I don’t suppose I have too much time to mull over this.’
Andrew shrugged, apologetically. ‘Not really. Things are going downhill fast. My advice would be to transfer your cash assets into property immediately, so they have a chance of holding their value. Just for a few years. If, down the line, you’re not happy being a property tycoon, we can look into something else. But for now, this looks like the safest and quickest option to shore you up. At least that’s what Stan and I would advise you to do. And we would have advised Bob the same.’
Clara put down her cup and saucer on the table. ‘All right, let’s do it. But I’d like to see the houses first. Can I do that?’
‘As long as it can be in the next couple of days, yes. I’ll telephone Stan and ask him to set it up for you. But we need to get this signed by the end of next week. Everything will be shutting down for Christmas after that, and January looks like it might be a very black month indeed.’
‘Can you ask him to arrange it for Saturday? I’ve got a full day tomorrow already.’
‘Business or pleasure?’ asked Andrew, with a twinkle in his eye.
‘A lady never tells,’ she quipped, tempted to add that there had been no pleasure since the night she and Andrew spent together before he was shot, but she refrained from doing so. ‘Seriously though,’ she said, ‘it’s business, paying business. You’ll be pleased to know that Vale Investigations is picking up more work. In fact, I’ve taken on two cases!’
‘Two cases?’
‘On the same day!’
Clara proceeded to tell him all about the Fenwick’s shoplifting case – omitting the name of the man who would be training her – and then the case of the missing fairy godmother. Andrew, to her relief, focused on the missing actress. ‘Trust Juju to get you involved in something like that! Do you think she really is missing, or just having a rest somewhere? Like that mystery writer who disappeared a couple of years ago, and they found her in Harrogate.’
‘Agatha Christie? Yes, it could be something like that. Perhaps Miss Langford just wants a bit of time out of the spotlight for a while. I’ll see what I can find out. I think I’ll pop along to the York Theatre Royal before I get the train back. It’s not too far from the station, is it?’
‘Walking distance,’ he said.
‘That’s what I thought.’