Chapter Thirteen

September

Mr Havelock was sitting at his desk, a glass of his favourite cognac in one hand, a thick Aroma de Cuba cigar smouldering in the ashtray. He had just been reading about the continuing repercussions for those involved in the failed plot to kill Hitler. He had been interested to see that the trial of the men involved was being presided over by the notorious judge Roland Freisler. The judge, he read, was rounding up the relatives of the principal plotters. All this went some way to lessening the frustration he’d felt on reading about the establishment of the new government of Free France.

He looked up at the clock. Miriam was late. As usual. Still, he had to count his blessings that she had finally decided to go and visit her mother at the asylum. He had gently tried to cajole her a number of times since her return, but hadn’t wanted to push too much for fear of raising her suspicions that he might have an ulterior motive for wanting her to see Henrietta. Lately, though, he’d started to wonder if Miriam was ever going to be able to drag herself out of the Grand to make the trip to Ryhope. It was as though she was trying to make up for lost time – restocking the coffers depleted during her time in Scotland.

There was a knock on the door.

‘Your daughter, sir,’ Eddy announced, holding open the large oak door.

‘Miriam! Lovely to see you!’ Mr Havelock’s smile and his enthusiastic welcome were genuine, although admittedly not for one of the reasons most fathers were glad of a visit from their offspring.

‘Is having Thomas working out well?’ Mr Havelock asked. It was a subtle reminder of his generosity in giving her full use of his driver, no matter the time of day or night. Thomas was on call to take Miriam wherever she wanted to go, which tended to be either from home to the Grand, or from the Grand back home. Now, hopefully, her chauffeur-driven excursions would extend to frequent visits to Ryhope.

‘It is,’ Miriam said, knowing she needed to show her gratitude. If her father ever gifted anything, he expected thanks. If he didn’t get any, favours were withdrawn as quickly as they had been given. ‘He really is quite the professional. And I am, of course, incredibly grateful. It really is such a luxury during these times.’ Miriam hoped that would do it.

‘Glad I can be of use in my dotage,’ he said.

Miriam laughed. ‘Father, I don’t think you will ever be in your dotage.’ Or ever admit to it. Walking quickly across the room, she sat down on a carved Biedermeier chair that had been shipped over before the start of the war. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t got long, Papa.’

‘Don’t worry, I won’t keep you …’ Mr Havelock took a puff on his cigar ‘… but there are a few things I need to go through with you.’

Seeing the look of impatience on his daughter’s face as she got out her compact mirror and checked her reflection, he added, ‘Something in particular that I believe will be to your advantage.’ He knew Miriam was all about the self. She would suffer his company if there was something in it for her.

Mr Havelock took another puff on his cigar.

‘I just wanted to thank you for agreeing to take Henrietta some presents,’ he said. ‘I know she won’t take them if she thinks they’re from me.’

Miriam waved her hand, dismissing the gratitude for what was a fairly innocuous favour.

‘You see, my dear, after hearing what Henrietta said to that awful woman and her daughter, it’s clear that she’s still delusional. Still believes all those horrible, horrible imaginings of hers.’

‘Don’t worry, Father, I’ll say they’re from me. She’ll be none the wiser.’

‘And I’ll know that I’ve been able to give her something,’ Mr Havelock said with a smile. ‘Something that might help with her suffering – ease the illness of her mind.’ For good.

Hoping that was all her father had to say, Miriam picked up her handbag.

‘Oh, one more thing before you go,’ Mr Havelock said. ‘It’s a bit of a delicate matter.’ He picked up his cigar, which had gone out, and relit it. ‘I’ve been thinking about my age.’ He laughed. ‘Not getting any younger and all that.’

‘I’d say you’re looking well for your age, Father. Very well.’ Miriam felt a wave of irritation. Her father had gone from never referring to his age to mentioning it twice in the space of a few minutes. Was he finally realising that he was, after all, not immortal?

‘Perhaps so, but as the doctor told me during my last check-up, what’s on the outside often belies what’s going on in the inside. He’s got me on these pills for my old ticker, but you never know. When your time’s up – your time’s up.’ There was actually nothing wrong with Mr Havelock’s ‘ticker’. His personal physician had simply given him a lecture about cutting back on the brandy and given him some sort of vitamin pill.

‘So,’ he said, sensing his daughter’s impatience, ‘I’ve written a new will.’

‘Really?’ This surprised Miriam. And had her attention. Suddenly, she was not quite so eager to get away. ‘And?’

‘And,’ Mr Havelock said, ‘the long and short of it is …’ He paused for effect. ‘I’m leaving everything to you.’

Miriam’s eyes lit up.

‘What about Margaret – and Helen?’ she asked, looking down at the document on top of the embossed-leather and mahogany desk.

‘Well, Margaret’s got Angus and he’s loaded to the hilt. That estate of his in the back of beyond is worth a small fortune – and they’ve not got any dependants, have they?’ He fought back a long-standing resentment. Two daughters and neither of them had been capable of producing a male heir.

‘And Helen?’ Miriam asked.

Mr Havelock almost spat out his reply.

‘I wouldn’t trust her not to give it away. She’d probably give it all to that child, Hope. Or her father and his mistress. No, no, no. Helen has made it clear what side of the fence she’s standing on and it’s not the Havelock side. And I’ll be damned if a penny of my hard-earned cash is going to find its way into the pockets of people like that. Liars. Adulterers. Bastards. The lot of them.’

Miriam clasped her hands together. She had to stop herself clapping with joy. This was a turn-up for the books. That horrible Christmas Day last year was turning out to be worth enduring. She’d been convinced until then that Helen was his favourite. Her job at the yard made her the nearest he had to a son. A successor who would inherit the lot.

‘Of course, there’ll be the usual charitable donations,’ Mr Havelock said, turning the will around so that Miriam could see it with her own eyes. ‘But the rest, my dear, will be yours to do with as you will.’

Miriam stared at the words dancing in front of her. It was true. Apart from bequests to the usual charities and hospitals, the bulk of the Havelock fortune was to be hers.

‘I don’t know what to say, Father.’ Miriam really was at a loss for words. ‘Thank you. That’s a wonderful thing to do. Thank you.’

Mr Havelock looked at his daughter. A normal mother would have wanted their only child to have at least a portion of his inheritance. The world was an unstable place at the moment. Who knew what was around the corner? Money meant security. Helen only had her wage at the yard. And it wasn’t as if Jack would be able to help her out. He didn’t have two pennies to rub together.

‘Right, I will let you go and see your dear mother,’ Mr Havelock said, standing up. ‘And perhaps we can have a catch-up on Monday. There are two launches. Short’s and Laing’s. I think we’ll go to Short’s. There should be more press there.’

Miriam’s mind was whirring. She’d go to both in one day and every day thereafter if that’s what her father wanted. She got up and grabbed her handbag, sneaking another look at the will. She could clearly see her name in full with the words main beneficiary next to it.

‘And you’ll tell me how you got on with your mother?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Miriam said. She couldn’t wait to get the visit over and done with so she could head straight to the Grand to celebrate her future windfall with Amelia.

And if her father’s ticker was starting to slow down, well, her windfall might be landing sooner rather than later.

‘There’s just a few things in there,’ Agatha said, handing Miriam the little wicker basket. ‘Can you manage it all right? Or should I get Thomas to carry it?’

‘Honestly, Agatha, stop fussing, it’s as light as a feather,’ Miriam said. She actually felt as though she could carry a cannonball. Her adrenaline was pumping.

As Agatha handed Miriam the basket, she held on to it for a moment.

‘You all right, Agatha?’ Miriam said, tugging the handle a little to force her father’s housekeeper to relinquish her load. ‘Your hand not glued on there, is it?’ She laughed at her own joke.

Agatha remained stony-faced.

Miriam walked over to the front door, which was being held open by Eddy.

‘Dear me, cheer up, the pair of you. You never know, it might never happen!’ Miriam chuckled and made her way to the waiting Jaguar.

Agatha stole a look at Eddy.

If only it wouldn’t.

‘Henrietta’s as mad as a hatter,’ Eddy muttered to Agatha as he shut the front door. ‘We’re actually doing the woman a favour. Putting her out of her misery.’

They walked across the main hallway and back towards the servants’ quarters. Both were glad that Mr Havelock had shut the door to his study and clearly didn’t want to be disturbed.

‘You keep telling yourself that, Edward,’ said Agatha. ‘And you might just end up really believing it.’

She, on the other hand, did not believe it.

Not one bit.

Mr Havelock watched at the window as the car drove off before he walked back over to his desk. He picked up the document that his daughter had believed to be his will and tore it up into small pieces, letting them drop into the fire. Striking a match, he tossed it onto the shredded paper. It went up in a short sharp whoosh of orange flame, before quickly dying back, leaving just charred remains.

He then picked up the real will, which had been under the make-believe one, and folded it up before replacing it in his safe and turning the combination lock.

He sat back down at his desk and took a sip of his brandy.

The idea of the will had been a brilliant one, even if he said so himself. It was not only a huge carrot guaranteed to keep Miriam on side, but it also ensured that Miriam and Helen would remain at loggerheads with each other.

Everything was now in place and going according to plan.

With Henrietta out of the way, no one – not Pearl, nor her holier-than-thou daughter – no one would be able to prove what he’d done to the young girls who had come to work under his roof. It would be a case of their word against his, and any kind of blood test that might be used to claim paternity could easily be contested. He could even deny he had employed Pearl – or that girl who’d topped herself, or anyone else who might come out of the woodwork. Eddy and Agatha would back him up. They would have no choice. They would have to if they wanted to save their own skins.

And if anyone dared to suggest that it was his wife who had been at the asylum, they would be laughed out of court, for it would be ‘Miss Girling’ on the death certificate. Henrietta Havelock would remain his wife who had died out in India. Henrietta Girling would die at the asylum in obscurity. Those suggesting otherwise would be seen as a few slices short and might even end up in the nuthouse themselves.

Mr Havelock puffed on his cigar and smirked. Now that was a thought.

When Henrietta was out of the picture for good, he could finally regain control. And when he did, then the fun really could begin. He would take great joy in exposing the sordid secrets of the women welders one by one – the child-killing mother, the bigamist and the adulterer. Then he would take even greater pleasure in picking off the rest of them. He’d get the licence for the Tatham Arms recalled and the pub shut down. The new Mr and Mrs Lawson would find themselves on the street, along with the Elliots, once he’d spoken to their landlord. He just wished he could be there after he made the call to the local authorities and reported Bel Elliot and her crippled husband, Joe, as being unfit parents to their adopted twins. He would love to see their faces. Their anguish. Their heartbreak.

His joy would be unending.

Sighing as he rolled the end of his cigar in the ashtray, Mr Havelock’s thin lips widened into a smile. So much to look forward to.

Now, it was just a matter of sitting back and waiting for the inevitable to happen.

He took a puff on his cigar.

Hopefully, the wait wouldn’t be a long one.