Wednesday 21st August 1929
The next morning, at ten o’clock, Clara presented herself at the offices of Jennings & Jennings. It was turning out to be a hot August day and her Coco Chanel tweed suit – with collarless box jacket and slimline skirt – was already proving to be too warm. But she did not feel that she could take off her jacket for such an important meeting. It was imperative that she give the impression of being professional and in control. She felt that last night, with Jack Danskin, her frivolous attire had given the wrong impression and she had let her guard down too much. She was concerned that so far both the men she had met in regard to her uncle’s will – Danskin and Barnaby Jennings – had the impression that she would probably be selling the business. However, after her time perusing the Whittaker file last night and her growing belief that Uncle Bob really did think she had what it took to be a good detective, the idea that she might stay on to run Wallace Enquiry Agency was beginning to take root.
Why shouldn’t she? What did she have to lose? Yes, she had a flat and a job in London, but she was not happy working at the library, and hadn’t been since she started. It was certainly better than teaching, which she hated, but neither job required research and investigation. As a science student she had loved those aspects of her course and what she really wanted was to work in a laboratory. But in the seven years since graduation, she had been unable to secure any work in the field. She had been to plenty of interviews, but each time a man had been given the role over her, even though, she suspected, in some cases they weren’t as qualified as she.
But now, here she was, being offered her own laboratory and opportunity to put her research and investigation skills to good use. Granted, it was all a very amateurish affair – scientifically – but it was still hers. She could own her own business, run her own affairs, dabble in science … and she would have a lovely house to live in too. To top it all, she would not have to be financially tied to her parents again. It was 1929. She was a modern, educated woman. She was able to vote. She was able to work. She was able to own her own business. Clara straightened her shoulders, feeling the sun on her back through the tweed jacket, and stepped into Emerson Chambers.
‘What do you mean, I will need my father’s signature?’
The two gentlemen looked at one another awkwardly. Roger Jennings, a man in his mid- to late thirties, was a younger, clean-shaven version of his father, although he did not appear quite as convivial. There was a tough edge to Roger Jennings, but, in his line of work, Clara decided that was not a bad thing. She wondered if Jennings Snr was a bit too much of a walkover and that it was left to his son to make the hard business decisions. The other man – the accountant, Andrew Ridpath – was also in his mid-thirties, handsome with wavy auburn hair, tamed with brilliantine, and a neat little moustache. Ridpath cleared his throat and said, apologetically: ‘I’m very sorry, Miss Vale, but the bank will require your father’s signature in order to transfer your uncle’s accounts into your name. Despite the enlightened times we live in, you will understand that most banks will not allow a woman to hold an account in her own name. If you were married, it would have been possible for you to become a secondary account holder to your husband, but as you are not, you cannot have an account unless your father – or another male relative – attests to your competence in matters financial.’
Clara sat back in her chair, uncomfortably hot and now with the wind well and truly knocked out of her sails. ‘So, I cannot inherit my uncle’s estate unless my father gives his permission? That’s, well, that’s ridiculous!’
Roger Jennings shook his head. ‘No, Miss Vale, that is not quite right. You can inherit the estate – the house, the business and the residual liquid assets are yours, with or without your father’s permission – however, you will not be able to gain access to the bank accounts without it. And that’s where the bulk of your uncle’s money is kept. Is that correct, Ridpath?’
The accountant nodded. ‘It is. Although there are a few hundred pounds in cash in the safe at the office. Your uncle liked to keep cash on hand for various expenses in the middle of an investigation. But apart from that, the rest of the capital – amounting to £10,000 – is in Lloyds Bank on Grey Street.’
Clara caught her breath. ‘Ten thousand pounds? That much?’
‘Yes, that much. And there are a further five thousand pounds in stocks and shares. Those will also be transferred into your name, but redeeming them, or accessing any dividends, will again require the transfer of your uncle’s bank account into your name. Do you think it will be a problem for your father to sign a letter to that effect?’ Ridpath looked at Clara in anticipation.
Clara had to consciously prevent herself from slumping. Yes, that would be a problem. Clara’s father did not approve of women working and didn’t see why she couldn’t live on the stipend he offered her. He had, with much reluctance, given permission for her to study at Oxford, but he had done so, mainly, because his wife had suggested that Clara might meet her future husband there, and as everyone knew, the aristocracy all sent their sons to Oxford or Cambridge. The Vales were nouveau riche and did not often get invited to social gatherings of blue bloods. This smarted. So, when the daughter of an acquaintance of Clara’s mother met and married an earl when she was reading English Literature at Oxford, Vanessa Vale got it into her head that Clara too might do as well. She convinced her husband to agree to pay for Clara’s studies. Science, of course, was not Vanessa’s subject of choice for her daughter, but when Clara refused to go up to the university unless she could read science, her parents grudgingly agreed. However, despite passing her ‘schools’ with distinction, she turned out to be a great disappointment to her parents, graduating without acquiring a husband.
Seven years later, and she was still a disappointment to them. She sighed. ‘Must it be my father who signs? We’re not on the best of terms. Isn’t it sufficient that my uncle considered me competent enough to leave his business to? Can’t you present the bank with the letter he wrote to me?’
The accountant nodded, thoughtfully. ‘It might, but it might not. And I fear it most likely will not.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘I’m afraid men in the financial profession are sticklers for procedure and bureaucracy. The correct form, the correct signature … this might be too out of the ordinary for them. But that’s not all. I believe your father himself is a banker. And the fact that he might be unwilling to sign an endorsement for his daughter might very well ring alarm bells. No doubt false alarms, I might add, but alarm bells nonetheless. So yes, you will need your father or another male relative – who is still alive – to endorse you.’
Clara lost the battle to stop herself slumping. ‘Oh,’ she said in a quiet voice. The triumph she’d felt walking into Emerson Chambers only half an hour ago had all but gone. But then, suddenly, the despondency was replaced by rage. This was her inheritance. This would be her business. How dare those bankers – those men – try to stop her. If it were her brother, Antony, who was inheriting it would not be a problem – and he was positively profligate with money – but she was the one who needed her father’s endorsement, she who had always been frugal with money and carefully ran her own affairs. Hang on … Antony …
She looked up. ‘Did you say that it could be another male relative who could endorse me?’
Ridpath nodded. ‘I did. But he needs to be alive. It couldn’t be your uncle.’
Clara shook her head. ‘No, I wasn’t thinking of him. I was thinking of my brother.’
‘Is he over the age of twenty-five?’
‘He’s thirty-two.’
Ridpath looked at Roger Jennings. ‘What do you think, Jennings?’
Jennings tapped his forefinger to his lips. ‘I don’t see why not. Might you check with the bank first to see if they’ll accept it?’
‘I can do that right now.’ He asked to use Jennings’ stylish marble and brass telephone and within a few minutes connected with the operator and asked to be put through to the bank manager. After a few minutes of quiet conversation he put down the receiver, grinning. ‘Good news, Miss Vale. The bank will accept an endorsement from your brother. The truth is, it’s not in their interest to keep this thing dragging out. The accounts are currently frozen. As soon as the business starts running again, the accounts will become active. Active accounts are profitable accounts. So, can you get that endorsement from your brother?’
Clara’s mind was ticking over. ‘I think so, but I’ll need some cash. How much did you say was in Uncle Bob’s safe?’
‘Four hundred pounds.’
‘Can I have two hundred of it? And can it be deposited into my brother’s bank account?’
Ridpath nodded. ‘I think that can be arranged. But let me clarify something here, are you proposing to pay your brother to endorse you?’
Clara smiled. ‘I am. Two hundred pounds to secure ten thousand pounds is a reasonable investment, wouldn’t you say?’
Ridpath and Jennings looked at each other and both nodded. ‘I would say so,’ said the accountant.
‘Good,’ said Clara, leaning forward. ‘May I borrow your telephone, Mr Jennings? And may I have some privacy?’
A quarter of an hour later, Clara put down the telephone and let out a sigh of relief. She called the men back into the office. ‘Well, he’s agreed. He’ll write the letter today and it should get here tomorrow or Friday. But he wants to make sure the money is in his account first. Can we arrange that today, Mr Ridpath?’
‘We can, if you give me his account details.’
Clara had written these down and passed them to Ridpath. ‘So,’ she said, engaging both men. ‘Is there anything else I need to do to claim my inheritance?’
Jennings nodded. ‘I have some papers for you to sign.’
‘Do we need to wait until I get the letter from my brother?’
‘No need for that. As I said, the inheritance is yours. The only complication was accessing the bank account. Which is why I invited Ridpath here to the meeting. That, and to witness your signature.’ Jennings opened a file and passed over a sheet of paper.
‘That is a statement of the value of your assets and liabilities as drawn up by Mr Ridpath. As you’ll see, the business, taking into account monies owed and due, is worth fifteen hundred pounds, and if you were to sell it, that would be the asking price. I think my father has already mentioned to you that we would be willing to facilitate any sale.’
Clara nodded, her eyes ranging over the figures. Fifteen hundred pounds. That was the least valuable component of the inheritance. She could sell the business and still have ten thousand pounds in savings, five thousand pounds in stocks and shares and a two-thousand-pound house. Should she mention that Jack Danskin was a potential buyer?
No, she thought, not yet. Keeping the business was still very much an option. And why muddy the waters any further? She’d get the bank account sorted first, then deal with the rest. Thank God for Antony and his gambling debts.