My dearest niece,
If you are reading this, it will be because I have died. As I write, I have no intention of leaving this world before my time – and have no plans to do so – but time is not our own to make. I have been unwell these last few months; the doctor says it is my heart. However, he says that if I look after myself I could still live a good long time. On the off-chance that he’s wrong (like the time he told me treatment for my ingrown toenail would not hurt a bit), I am writing this letter and updating my will with Jennings & Jennings. You will no doubt have met Barnaby Jennings if you are reading this letter. Be assured he is a good man, a good solicitor and a good friend. If he can help you in any way – beyond the scope of this will – he will do so; do not be afraid to ask.
But I digress. So now, dear Clara, we both know I am dead. I hope you enjoyed the tea and cakes Mrs Hobson put on at my funeral. That is my housekeeper, and I hope you find a way to either keep her in employment or secure another position for her. If you are unable to do so, I trust that Jennings will take it upon himself.
By now I expect you will have heard that I am leaving my house and business to you. Why? You may rightly ask. Well, as you know, I never married, and my sister and her children are my only family. I could have left all to charity, but something in me cried out for someone of my own flesh and blood to carry my memory forward. My sister would not be an option. You know she and I have never got on (did she dislike the cakes as much as I expected her to? She never did like lemon drizzle), so that leaves you, Antony and Laura.
To be brief, as by now I’m probably cold in the grave and you are wishing I would just hurry up and get on with it, your brother is feckless and your sister inane. He is only interested in making money to spend on gambling and frivolity; she only in as much as it will buy her a fancy house and frocks. But you, dear Clara, are cut from a different cloth. I like to think that some of my blood flows in your veins.
How do I know this? Well, remember that week together back in ’15 at your parents’ summer cottage in Cornwall (although how a six-bedroomed house could be called a ‘cottage’ I have no idea)? I was greatly impressed with you. I loved the talks and walks we had along the cliffs. I delighted in your questions and your answers. You were curious about everything from the stars in the sky to the ants at our feet. You had thoughts too about the dreadful war, and why we were allowing our young men to be sent like lambs to the slaughter. And you spoke to me about the books you had been reading: from Darwin to Planck! And Jules Verne and Conan Doyle. It was such an eclectic mix for a girl of your age.
I looked forward thereafter to the occasional invitations from your father to visit you all in either London or Cornwall. He hoped your mother and I would settle our differences; I hoped to spend more time with you. And I enjoyed every minute we spent together – though alas, they were too few.
I followed your school career with interest and was delighted with every letter you wrote me. I was sorry that the letters tailed off as you got older, but I expected you didn’t have much time to write to your old uncle when you were an Oxford undergraduate. Who would have thought that a child of my sister would ever have gone up to Oxford! And to read science! Such a brave choice for a young woman. Attending your degree ceremony was one of the proudest moments of my life. I still remember how magnificent you looked in your cap and gown, alongside those other most esteemed ladies. And the splendid tea we had afterwards in the gardens of the Radcliffe Camera.
I was, however, saddened to hear how you struggled to find long-term employment after graduation. All those laboratories that turned you down! Then that boarding school for girls that discontinued its science programme. Then that school for boys and girls that would not hire you when they heard you were a woman. And didn’t you have a short-lived stint as an assistant in a chemist shop? I wonder why that didn’t continue? The last I heard you were working in a library. Such a waste of your talents! But I was still heartened to hear that you were at least trying to make a living on your own, and not depending solely on a stipend from your family (although your father can more than afford it). You are now thirty years of age – and still unmarried – which suggests to me you are not waiting for a husband to support you.
However, again, I digress. You may be wondering what on earth you will do with a detective agency, but I think that if anyone can make a go of it you can. Being a detective requires an enquiring mind – which you have in abundance – and someone who is best suited to working alone. I believe you are that person. And, as you will soon find out if you take on this challenge, your scientific training will be most helpful too. If you do not agree with my assessment, or do not wish to take on the challenge, then you may sell the agency – and the house, if you will – and use the money to further your prospects in whatever way you choose. But I do ask you to give it some serious thought.
As I said at the opening of this missive, Barnaby Jennings will help you in any way he can.
So now, my dear, I wish you well in your future endeavours. I know it will annoy your mother, and that gives me no end of delight. I jest (but only a little).
Your distant, but no less loving, uncle
Robert Wallace (Uncle Bob)
Clara’s hands were still shaking as she refolded the letter and put it carefully back into its envelope. She looked up into the curious eyes of Barnaby Jennings.
‘Do you know what is in this letter, Mr Jennings?’
‘I do. Your uncle let me read it before he sealed it and gave it to me for safekeeping with his will.’
Clara nodded, her thoughts rushing back to those Cornish cliffs and the kind, funny uncle she had once known. He had been so full of life.
‘Did he suffer much in his last days? With his heart?’
Jennings shook his head. ‘Not much, no. He got tired easily, but I don’t think he was in much pain. It was a mercy, too, that he died quietly in his sleep. But I wrote all this in my letter to your mother. Didn’t she tell you?’
Clara shook her head, all effort to keep up the pretence to shore up Jennings’ rose-tinted memories of her mother gone.
‘No,’ she said, her voice quivering on the verge of tears. However, she was not a woman who wept easily, and she brought her emotions back under control.
If Jennings was shocked at her admission that Vanessa Vale had not told Clara about her uncle’s state of health and his death, he hid it behind a polite, professional mask.
‘So, what are you going to do, Miss Vale? Are you going to take on the agency? I told your uncle it was a strange bequest to give to a young woman – and perhaps more of a curse than a blessing – but he seemed sure you would embrace it. Was he wrong? Or am I?’
Clara shrugged. ‘I honestly can’t tell you, Mr Jennings. I think I’ll need a bit of time to think it all through.’
‘I understand. But if you decide to sell it – which, if I’m frank, might be the best option, despite your uncle’s romantic notions of you becoming a lady sleuth – I will be able to help you with that. Do not fear. Or you might want to sell the agency but keep the house. But of course, you can sell them both if you so choose. As you’ll see, it’s a lovely property, in a handsome part of town, and you should get a good price for it. Are you in Newcastle long?’
Clara blinked her dark brown eyes, trying to take in all the solicitor was telling her. She would definitely need more time to think everything through. ‘I am to travel back on Friday morning, Mr Jennings. So I have three more full days. Might you be able to show me Uncle Bob’s office? And, of course, the house.’
‘Of course,’ said Jennings. He checked his pocket watch. ‘We can go now if you like.’
Uncle Bob’s office was only a five-minute walk from Emerson Chambers. They passed a war memorial in the middle of a formal park, in the centre of a genteel commercial and residential square, then headed along Barrack Road.
‘I have been very impressed with Newcastle, so far,’ said Clara, making small talk, as Jennings raised his hat and nodded his greetings to people left and right.
‘It’s a lovely city,’ said Mr Jennings. ‘With very friendly folk. I’m surprised anyone would want to live elsewhere.’
‘I’m surprised how well-to-do it is. Down south we’ve heard that there is extreme poverty here.’
‘There is, Miss Vale. Like any city. And you won’t have to go far from here to see it. But the same can be said for Bristol, or Manchester, or London …’
‘That’s very true,’ said Clara as they turned right into Percy Street, a busy shopping concourse with pubs and a picture house jostling for space with grocery stores and tea rooms. A tramline ran down the middle, with a road for free-moving traffic – horse-drawn and motorised – on either side. Jennings stopped outside a costume shop at the corner of Percy Street and the steeply rising Leazes Park Road. At the crest of the hill, Clara glimpsed what she thought might be the wooden edifice of a football stand.
‘Here we are,’ said Jennings and took a key out of his pocket.
Clara, taken aback, looked into the window of the costumier (called Levine’s Costumes according to the sign), which showcased pirate outfits and Roman togas, and said: ‘My uncle worked here? Was he one of those detectives in disguise?’
Jennings chuckled. ‘No. His office is above the shop.’ Jennings ushered Clara around the corner from the shop entrance to an unassuming wooden door. There was a discreet plaque on the wall which read: Wallace Enquiry Agency.
‘Did he own the building?’
‘No,’ said Jennings. ‘He rented the office space from the people who own the costume shop. I have kept up payments from his estate. The business is separate from the lease, so if you decide to take over the agency you don’t have to stay here. And of course, if you sell it, the new buyer can set up office wheresoever he chooses. Best you decide soon though, to save you on the rent money.’
Mr Jennings pushed open the door to reveal a narrow staircase. ‘After you, Miss Vale.’
Clara climbed the stairs, asking as she went: ‘So what exactly does the business consist of? If I’m to sell, what exactly would I be selling, if not the office space?’
‘You’ll be selling your uncle’s contact book, his open cases and capital assets. He does not have full-time employees, but he does have a number of agents on his books that he employs from time to time. Legally, you’re not obliged to keep them on, as they were paid cash in hand for each job. We will, however, have to check whether there are any debts outstanding. My son – whom I’ll arrange for you to meet tomorrow – is currently going through the books with your uncle’s accountant, so we don’t yet have a final value on the business. The house, on the other hand, is far more straightforward. I believe you could get two thousand pounds for it.’
‘Goodness me! That much?’
‘I believe that’s what houses on St Thomas’ Crescent are selling for these days, yes.’
Clara had reached the top of the stairs and pushed open the door. It opened into a reasonably well-lit room, about twenty feet square, with a door leading off the back. It was furnished like any ordinary office: a desk, chairs, filing cabinets and bookcases. There was a gooseneck telephone on the desk and a black cast-iron Underwood typewriter on the desk. Through the doorway at the back, she glimpsed a lavatory and basin separated from a small kitchenette.
Jennings followed her gaze. ‘Yes, there are indoor ablutions. Which pushes the rental up.’
‘A price worth paying to spend a penny,’ she observed drily.
‘Quite,’ said Jennings, with a twinkle of humour.
Clara stood in the middle of the room and did a slow 360-degree turn. Then she turned to Mr Jennings. ‘I don’t really know what to say. I mean, where do I start? Do I sell? Do I keep it? If I keep it, how do I run it? What do I even do as an enquiry agent?’
Jennings smiled, sympathetically. ‘I know, it’s a lot to take in. And my advice would be to sell the agency. But take your time and think about it for a while. As for what you actually do here, I can perhaps set up a meeting with one of your uncle’s regular agents. He can give you a better idea of the day-to-day running of the business. Would you like me to do that?’
‘Oh yes please,’ said Clara, with immense relief. ‘I should be most grateful if you could.’