HAROLD R. BENSON, JR., had at least provided Ambrose Quince with an ancestral mansion, an up-to-date address, and a live—if elusive—wife to visit. Simon Finch was a more difficult proposition. All that Ambrose had to go on was an address in suburban Washington dating back more than fifteen years. With the rapidly growing suburbs and the quick turnover of inhabitants that is even more marked in Washington, D.C., than in most American cities, Ambrose felt that his task was going to be far from easy.
The next day, Saturday, under a leaden sky that threatened more snow, Ambrose and Rosalie drove over Key Bridge from Georgetown to the Virginia bank of the Potomac River, and were soon in the expensive suburb of McLean. Everywhere, new houses were going up—large houses with colonial-type façades, big gardens, and swimming pools. The vast shopping center at Tyson’s Corner enticed shoppers into the luxurious emporia of Bloomingdale’s and Saks Fifth Avenue. Every house had at least two cars, many three or four.
Ambrose had some difficulty in tracing the address that Finch had given him. Old Colonial Drive turned out to be a country road that was rapidly assuming the appearance of a wealthy housing estate as new buildings went up. However, number 186—to Ambrose’s relief—was still there. It was a pretty little stone house, smaller but much more solidly constructed than its newer neighbors.
The front door was answered by a dark-haired maid, who greeted the Quinces in Spanish. When Ambrose asked in English to speak to the lady of the house, the maid giggled, went red in the face, and fled—leaving Ambrose and Rosalie shivering on the doorstep. They heard a hurried consultation of female voices in Spanish, and then a tall, good-looking woman appeared from the back of the house.
In reasonable English, but with a heavy accent, she said, “May I ’elp you? I am afraid Maria speak no English.”
Ambrose said, “I’m sorry to trouble you, madam. I’m trying to trace some people who used to live in this house. People by the name of Finch.”
“Feench?” The woman frowned. “I know nobody of zat name. No Feench. My ’usband rent zis ’ouse. We are at the embassy just one year already. Before us was Señor Oliviera, Brazil embassy. No Feench.”
The woman smiled, gave a little nod as if to indicate that the conversation was now at an end, and began to close the front door. A little desperately, Ambrose said, “Just a moment, please. Can’t you—?” He searched his mind for inspiration, and it came. “Can’t you give me the name of the owner of the house?”
“I…no, I don’t zink I do zat.” The woman hesitated. “You can ask ze agent. Ze real-estate agent.”
“What’s his name?” Ambrose asked eagerly.
“Bernard Grady and Company. Ask for Mrs. Mallison. I cannot ’elp you any more.” The door closed quickly and firmly.
From the warmth and comfort of the shopping center, Ambrose telephoned Bernard Grady and Company, whose address was listed in the directory as being in the old town of Alexandria, further down the river.
A brisk female voice informed Ambrose that Mrs. Mallison was not in the office. She worked largely from her home, but in any case today she was at an open house.
“An open house?” Ambrose was puzzled. “A party, you mean?”
“An open house,” the girl repeated.
“I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand…”
“It’s Saturday,” the girl explained patiently. “The house is open. Mrs. Mallison is showing it. She’ll be there all day.”
Enlightenment dawned. “Oh, I see. Sorry to have been so dense. We do things rather differently in England. You mean, anybody can walk in and view the house?”
“Of course.”
“Can you give me the address?”
“Certainly.” The voice, which had been showing signs of irritation, now became cordial. “It’s in McLean.” She gave Ambrose an address and concise directions. “Then take the next turn right off Dolley Madison Boulevard, and follow our signs to the house.”
The house that Mrs. Mallison was showing turned out to be typical of an affluent suburb. It was probably not more than two or three years old, and it was a smaller and flimsier imitation of the Leesburg mansion that had been the Benson family home. The red-brick façade was only a thin veneer, the columns looked impressive but supported nothing. However, the general effect was attractive, and despite the enormous price tag and the inclement weather, quite a lot of Washington’s house-hungry citizens had come to see it. There was an assortment of cars in the drive, and several couples—mostly in young middle age and all clearly prosperous—smiled politely to each other as they passed coming and going through the open front door.
Just inside the door, in the large hallway, a distinguished-looking woman with gray hair sat at a small desk, directing the visitors and answering their questions.
“Mrs. Mallison?” Ambrose inquired.
“Yes, indeed. Have you looked around the house yet?”
“As a matter of fact, no.” Ambrose was somewhat surprised to observe that Mrs. Mallison appeared to be in sole charge of the operation. He had not yet realized that in the United States, unlike England, the business of real estate was almost entirely in the hands of such capable ladies.
“Well, do take a look, and then ask me anything you want to know.” She smiled, and turned to respond to an inquiry about property taxes from an earnest young man in a turtleneck sweater.
Ambrose hesitated. Mrs. Mallison was clearly extremely busy, and he knew that he and Rosalie must look like any other couple who had come to view the house. It was not going to be easy to detach her from her work to talk about Captain and Mrs. Finch.
At that moment, an elderly man came in through the front door and stood surveying the scene with a pleased smile. He was stout and tall, and with his rosy cheeks and white hair and beard, he could have stepped into the role of Santa Claus with no makeup. His appearance was in sharp contrast to that of the youngish couples around him, and he gave the impression of being both a larger-than-life character and a man of authority.
Mrs. Mallison looked up from her papers, smiled, and said. “Why, Mr. Grady. How kind of you to look in.”
“Now, Anna, my dear,” boomed Santa Claus, “just you carry on. Pay no attention to me. I just dropped by because this house is so close to home.”
Ambrose hurried over. “You are Mr. Bernard Grady?”
“I certainly am, sir. This is a delightful home, is it not? One of the best that has come our way for some time. I can tell you’re interested—but you’ll have to talk to Anna about it. She’s in sole charge of this property.”
“As a matter of fact,” Ambrose said, “it’s not this house I’m concerned with. It’s 186 Old Colonial Drive.”
The white eyebrows went up. “My dear sir, I fear you have been misinformed. That house is not on the market.”
“I know it isn’t, Mr. Grady. Please let me explain. I am trying to trace some previous owners—people named Finch. I thought that I might be able to do so through the present owners—or even that the Finches might still own the house, and be renting it out. I called there, and the tenant referred me to your office.”
Grady was looking thoughtful. He said, “What is your concern with the Finches, Mr…er…?”
“Quince. Ambrose Quince. And this is my wife Rosalie. We’re from England.”
“I had guessed as much, sir,” said Grady, with a twinkle. “Well, now, Mr. Quince—as I say, what is your concern?”
Ambrose felt a quickening of excitement. This old man obviously knew something. He said, “I wonder if we could go somewhere a little more private, Mr. Grady, and I’ll explain.”
Grady looked at him through bright blue eyes for a moment, and then said, “Let us go to my house. It is only just down the road. I have lived in McLean for many years. You have a car? Wonderful. Perhaps you will be kind enough to give me a ride. I came on foot.”
Bernard Grady’s house, like the Finch home, was clearly a relic of the days when McLean was a country village rather than a suburb. It was a solid red-brick house, standing behind a solid red-brick wall, and surrounded by a well-tended garden. Even through the snow, Ambrose could see the neat outlines of the flower beds.
Grady ushered the Quinces into a pleasant but rather impersonal drawing room, poured drinks, and then said, “If you have come all the way from England, I suppose it must be about the boy.”
“The boy?”
“Young Simon Finch. I hope he’s not in trouble.”
Ambrose exhaled a deep breath. He said, “Quite the reverse. He may stand to come into some money.” He paused. “So the Finches do still own the house?”
Grady shook his white head. “No, no, no. Unfortunately, they are both dead now. But for many years they were friends and neighbors of mine. Alice put the house in my hands after Jack died, ten years ago. She was English—but of course you knew that.” Ambrose nodded. Grady went on: “I had no difficulty in selling the house for her at a good price. The trek to the suburbs was in full swing, and McLean was becoming fashionable. Alice moved into a small apartment in Alexandria. We…I saw quite a lot of her. My wife had died recently, you see, so we were able to sympathize with each other.” He paused, remembering. “Yes, she was a charming woman. Never lost that Englishness, in all the years she lived here. Who knows, if things had been different, we might have…but there it was.”
“You say she is dead, too,” Ambrose said.
“Yes. Most tragically. Poor Alice. She was on her way home from a vacation in England. The plane crashed. She was not among the survivors.”
It was Rosalie who said, “Was it a vacation, Mr. Grady? Or was she looking for Simon?”
Grady shook his head. “I don’t know. I just don’t know. She would never speak about him…that is, she used to talk to me about him as he had been when he was a little boy. But after he ran away—never. Naturally, I did not press her. It was a very sensitive subject.”
Ambrose said, “Just how much do you know of what happened, Mr. Grady?”
“How much about what, Mr. Quince?”
“About the Finches. Their past history. When did you first meet them?”
Grady said, “The Finches were married in England during the war. About 1943, it must have been. In ’44, Jack was badly wounded—lost his right leg below the knee. He was invalided home, and they arrived in the States when Simon was only a few weeks old. When Jack got well enough, he took some sort of government job in Washington. I’m not sure what—he didn’t mention his work much. Anyhow, they bought the house on Old Colonial Drive, and settled in there with the new baby.”
Ambrose said, “Mr. Grady, did you know that Simon was not their child? That he was adopted?”
Grady shook his head, but without surprise. “I didn’t know,” he said, “but I suppose I might have guessed. That was probably the root of the trouble.”
“What was the trouble, Mr. Grady?” Rosalie asked.
“I really don’t know.”
“But if you were a near neighbor for all those years—”
“No, no, Mrs. Quince. I’m afraid I have not made myself clear. One eighty-six Old Colonial Drive was my house. I sold it to Alice and Jack in 1944, when I was finally able to convince Uncle Sam that a man in his forties was not too old to make some active contribution to the war. I was sent overseas in an administrative capacity, and my wife went to live with her parents in North Carolina. I met the Finches only a couple of times over the sale of the house. I was greatly taken with them, I must say, and the baby was a fine little fellow.”
“So when did you meet them again?” Ambrose asked.
Grady said, “When the war ended, I went and joined my wife in North Carolina. I had always worked in real estate—but I came back to find the firm I had worked for closed. There was no job for me. My father-in-law came to the rescue—took me into his family business. It was fifteen years before I had saved up enough to achieve my ambition—to come back to the Washington area and open my own real-estate business. My wife and I bought this house, and were delighted to find that the Finches were still living in our old home. Delighted—except for one thing. The boy, Simon, had run away from home. It happened just before we moved back here to McLean.
“It was a shattering blow to Jack and Alice. Especially to Alice, I think. It made Jack very angry. I gathered he’d been mighty critical of his son at times. Jack was a big tough guy, had been a great one for sports and so on, but with his bad leg he’d had to give it all up. Naturally, he hoped his son would grow up to do all the things he’d wanted to do himself—but it seems Simon wasn’t that sort of boy at all. Diffident and studious was how Alice described him.”
Ambrose thought of the thin, nervous man he had met in London, and nodded. He said, “So what exactly happened?”
“I can’t tell you, Mr. Quince. Neither of them would talk about it. Jack simply flew into a rage if the boy’s name was mentioned. He disowned him—said he wouldn’t let him into the house if he did try to come back. Alice always said it was all bluster to hide how hurt and disappointed he really was. I don’t know. At all events, Simon never did come home, as far as I know. However, if—as you suggested—Alice had had an inkling that the boy might be in England, it’s perfectly possible that she might have gone over to look for him after Jack died. He’d never have allowed her to do such a thing while he was alive, of course.”
Ambrose said, “She never told you where she thought he might be?”
The old man shook his head. “She never spoke of him. That is, she only spoke about his childhood, before it happened.”
“And you never saw Simon Finch yourself, except as a tiny baby?”
“Never. Alice did show me a couple of snapshots, taken when he was about thirteen. She had managed to keep them hidden when Jack insisted on destroying all traces of his son, after he ran away.”
Ambrose reached into his pocket and brought out a small, unflattering picture that he had insisted be taken in London of the man who claimed to be Simon Finch.
“Could that be him, Mr. Grady?”
Grady took the photograph, fumbled with his spectacle case, and set a pair of horn-rimmed glasses on his broad nose. He studied the picture in silence, then said, “It could be. It could be, Mr. Quince. But I can’t go further than that. You’re asking me to search my recollection of a photograph of a thirteen-year-old boy, and to tell you whether it’s the same person as a photograph of a man in his thirties. My impression is that the lad’s hair looked rather lighter in the snapshots than this man’s—but that could be a trick of the light. Anyhow, fair hair tends to darken in middle age. Well, there it is. All I can say is—that man could be Simon Finch.” He cleared his throat, handed back the photograph, and said, “I’ve told you all I know, Mr. Quince. Will you now relieve my curiosity with a few more details?”
Ambrose said, “Certainly, Mr. Grady. I told you that the baby was adopted. His parents were both killed in an air raid, and the rest of the family didn’t want to know. However, belatedly, the child’s bachelor uncle developed a conscience, and decided to leave his money to his nephew, if the latter could be found. The uncle is now dead. I am the executor of the will, and I am looking for Simon Finch.”
“So you knew he had disappeared as a youngster?”
Ambrose evaded the question. He said. “I am in touch with the young man in this photograph. He may be Simon Finch.”
“And is there a lot of money involved?”
Ambrose hesitated just too long. Up went the white eyebrows again, and Bernard Grady said, “Why, bless my soul, Mr. Quince. Are you trying to tell me that Simon Finch was born Simon Warwick?”
Rosalie laughed. “No, Mr. Grady. Ambrose has been trying not to tell you, but he’s obviously failed.”
“Why, I was reading a piece in the Post only the other day. The uncle was a duke or something. Millions of dollars at stake, it said. Well, I’ll be gosh-darned.” He sighed. “Poor Alice. She could have told you for sure. I’m afraid I haven’t been much help.”
“You’ve helped me a great deal, Mr. Grady,” said Ambrose. “There’s just one other thing. When the baby left England, he had a passport of his own. A British passport. Mrs. Finch never mentioned such a thing to you, did she?”
“Nope. Not that I can… Hey, wait a minute. I’ve just remembered something.”
“Yes?”
“It was when she showed me those pictures of Simon. She was just a little bitter against Jack. The only time I heard her criticize him. She said something like, ‘These are all I have to remind me I ever had a son, Bernie. A couple of wretched little snapshots. Jack destroyed everything else. I can’t even find his passport.’ I said, ‘Passport? You mean young Simon had a passport?’—and she seemed quite embarrassed. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘we got him one when we thought we might go abroad’—and then she changed the subject. I’d quite forgotten. But I remember it now, because it was the only time I ever thought that maybe Alice wasn’t squaring with me. She was the most honest person, Mr. Quince.”
Ambrose smiled. “Your instinct was right, Mr. Grady. The Finches did travel abroad with Simon, but he went on their joint passport, as their child. She must have been referring to his infant passport—and of course she couldn’t explain to you without giving away the secret that he was adopted. She said she couldn’t find it?”
“That’s my recollection, Mr. Quince. It was nine years ago.”
“Very interesting, Mr. Grady. Very interesting.”
Bernard Grady performed a final service by directing Ambrose and Rosalie to the local records office. There, the following Monday, they discovered death certificates for John Turnbull Finch and, dated a year later, Alice Mabel Finch. His cause of death was given as cardiac arrest, and hers as multiple injuries sustained in an aviation accident. There was no birth certificate for Simon Finch, of course, because he had been born outside the United States.
However, the local public-school records showed that Simon Alexander Finch, of 186 Old Colonial Drive, had attended the school for ten years, entering first grade at the age of five in 1949 and leaving “to continue his studies elsewhere” at the age of fifteen, having completed the tenth grade—an average but not brilliant pupil. Unfortunately, no teachers who had known young Finch were still at the school—but, as Ambrose remarked to Rosalie, everything tied in.
As they walked down the snowy street from the school, Ambrose said, “There ought to be another piece of paper somewhere.”
“What do you mean, darling?”
“Well, I’ve been boning up on the question of adoptions, especially in the United States. Normally, of course, the adopted child is born American, like the adoptive parents. Once the adoption is finally legalized—and that can take some time, because there’s a lot of careful checking done—then the parents are handed a new birth certificate for the child. It gives the place and date of birth correctly, but with the adoptive instead of the natural parents entered as mother and father.”
“So,” said Rosalie, “if they decide not to tell the child he’s adopted, there’s no way he could find out.”
“Exactly. The actual records of the transaction are sealed away in some lawyer’s office, and until very recently nobody could have access to them—not even the child himself when he grew up. I believe there’s a new and less rigid law now, but it wouldn’t have applied to this case. Anyhow, we have no idea what lawyer the Finches used. There’s no hope of getting hold of any documents relating to an American adoption.”
Tentatively, Rosalie said, “Wouldn’t Humberton have…?”
“We’ve seen the letters from Humberton,” Ambrose said. “But the actual adoption must have been done over here.”
“So what about the birth certificate?”
“Exactly. Now, if Simon had actually been the Finches’ child, born in England while his father was on active service, he’d have had a British birth certificate, a British passport if he wanted one, and the option of dual nationality or of deciding one way or the other when he came of age. But there was no way the Finches could get a British birth certificate for Simon in their name. As we know, it’s still on the British files in the name of Warwick.”
“They must have realized the problem,” said Rosalie.
“Certainly they must. They must have put it to the lawyer who acted for them here. And I’m just asking myself—if I had been that lawyer, what would I have advised?”
Rosalie said thoughtfully, “If he’d been their natural child—”
“That’s it!” interrupted Ambrose, triumphantly.
“What’s it?”
“Naturalization. In the most literal sense of the word. I’ll bet it could be arranged, and I bet they did it, and there must be a record of it somewhere!”
There was. Simon Alexander Finch, son of Alice (née Bartlett) and Captain John Finch, born to them in London, England, on October 8, 1944, had been naturalized as a United States citizen in 1945. His mother had taken American nationality upon her marriage, as she was entitled to do, and in the circumstances the statutory fourteen years’ residency clause had been suspended in the case of the child. Simon Alexander Warwick, Englishman, had become Simon Alexander Finch, U.S. citizen.
“There you are!” Ambrose said to Rosalie, as they sat in their hotel room looking out over the lights of Washington and listening to cars skidding into each other on the frozen streets. “Everything tallies, and it works on the psychological level, too.”
“How do you mean, darling?”
“Well, the machismo father who sounds a frightful brute, with his gimpy leg, trying to lead a vicarious life of brawn and brawls through his son. The gentle English mother, trying to mediate between them. The boy must have been unhappy enough by the time he found those papers, which told him for the first time that these people were not his parents at all. It’s no wonder he stole the documents and ran away. The father then flies into a rage and destroys all other papers and photographs, except the snapshots, which the mother manages to hide.” Ambrose, warming to his theme, had dropped into the historical present—a device he liked to use in court. “But his mother does not tell Grady that the passport was destroyed—only that she cannot find it. What happened to it? Nobody exactly knows, but I intend to find out. Somehow or other, it falls into the hands of the boy Harold Benson. After all, Leesburg is not so far from McLean. The boys are the same age, and from the same social background. Maybe they go to summer camp together. Perhaps Simon Finch discovers his passport before he finds the letters, and takes it to show to his friend.”
Interrupting the flow, Rosalie said, “You’re quite certain aren’t you, Ambrose?”
“Certain about what?”
“That Simon Finch is Simon Warwick.”
“I don’t see how there can be any doubt about it. I’ve enough proof for any court of law. What I intend to do now is to find out just how Benson got that passport, and to expose him for what he is—a fraud, and an impostor.”
“And Simon Finch will get Lord Charlton’s money?”
“I shall lay the matter before the judiciary,” said Ambrose.
“You do sound pompous, darling.”
“Sorry, darling. What I mean is, I’ll consult with Bertie Hamstone, and if he agrees we’ll go to the courts and present the evidence. After that, the will can be proved and the estate handed over.”
“And Simon Finch-Warwick will take over one of the biggest textile businesses in Europe.”
“He won’t take over, idiot. He’ll be the major shareholder.”
Rosalie yawned, stretching her arms above her head. Then she got up and walked over to the window. “I can’t help feeling sorry for them, Ambrose.”
“For whom?”
“All those lovely charities who would have got the money. I bet they were counting on it.”
“Well, they’ll have to look elsewhere,” said Ambrose, “because we’ve found Simon Warwick.”
Rosalie turned, smiled, and held out her arms. “How clever you are, darling. He’s sure to be grateful, isn’t he?”
Ambrose embraced his wife. “He bloody well ought to be,” he said.
The question of a second visit to Charlottesville was never even mentioned. The Quinces flew back to London with the documentary evidence of naturalization, a statement by Bernard Grady, school attendance records, and death certificates. The search for Simon Warwick was over.