A Prisoner of Birth by Jeffrey Archer
By the time he got off the tube at Charing Cross, Danny had settled on two plans of action, depending on whether the manager of Coutts knew Sir Nicholas well, or had never come across him before.
He walked along the Strand looking for the bank. On its grey cover Nick’s chequebook simply stated Coutts & Co, The Strand, London; clearly it was too grand an establishment to admit it had a number. He had not gone far before he spotted a large glass-fronted bronze building on the other side of the road, discreetly displaying two crowns above the name Coutts. He crossed the road, nipping in and out of the traffic. He was about to find out the extent of his wealth.
He entered the bank through the revolving doors, and quickly tried to get his bearings. Ahead of him, an escalator led up to the banking hall. He made his way up to a large, glass-roofed room with a long counter running the length of one wall. Several tellers, dressed in black frock coats, were serving customers. Danny selected a young man who looked as if he had only just started shaving. He walked up to his window. ‘I would like to make a withdrawal.’
‘How much do you require, sir?’ the teller asked.
‘Five hundred pounds,’ said Danny, handing over the cheque he had written out earlier that morning.
The teller checked the name and number on his computer, and hesitated. ‘Would you be kind enough to wait for one moment, Sir Nicholas?’ he asked. Danny’s mind started racing. Was Nick’s account overdrawn? Had the account been closed? Were they unwilling to deal with an ex-con? A few moments later an older man appeared, and gave him a warm smile. Had Nick known him?
‘Sir Nicholas?’ he ventured.
‘Yes,’ said Danny, one of his questions answered.
‘My name is Mr Watson. I’m the manager. It’s a pleasure to meet you after all this time.’ Danny shook him warmly by the hand before the manager added, ‘Perhaps we could have a word in my office?’
‘Certainly, Mr Watson,’ said Danny, trying to appear confident. He followed the manager across the banking floor and through a door that led into a small wood-panelled office. There was a single oil painting of a gentleman in a long black frock coat hanging on the wall behind his desk. Under the portrait was the legend John Campbell, Founder, 1692.
Mr Watson began speaking even before Danny had sat down. ‘I see that you haven’t made a withdrawal for the past four years, Sir Nicholas,’ he said, looking at his computer screen.
‘That’s correct,’ said Danny.
‘Perhaps you have been abroad?’
‘No, but in future I will be a more regular customer. That is, if you have been handling my account with care while I’ve been away.’
‘I hope you will think so, Sir Nicholas,’ responded the manager. ‘We have been paying interest at three per cent per annum into your current account year on year.’
Danny wasn’t impressed, but only asked, ‘And how much is in my current account?’
The manager glanced at the screen. ‘Seven thousand, two hundred and twelve pounds.’
Danny breathed a sigh of relief, then asked, ‘Are there any other accounts, documents or valuables in my name which you are holding at the present time?’ The manager looked a little surprised. ‘It’s just that my father died recently.’
The manager nodded. ‘I’ll just check, sir,’ he said, before pressing some keys on his computer. He shook his head. ‘It seems that your father’s account was closed two months ago, and all his assets were transferred to the Clydesdale Bank in Edinburgh.’
‘Ah yes,’ said Danny. ‘My uncle Hugo.’
‘Hugo Moncrieff was indeed the recipient,’ confirmed the manager.
‘Just as I thought,’ said Danny.
‘Is there anything else I can do for you, Sir Nicholas?’
‘Yes, I’ll need a credit card.’
‘Of course,’ said Watson. ‘If you fill in this form,’ he added, pushing a questionnaire across the table, ‘we’ll send one to your home address in the next few days.’
Danny tried to remember Nick’s date and place of birth and his middle name; he wasn’t sure what to put under ‘occupation’ or ‘annual earnings’.
‘There’s one other thing,’ said Danny once he’d completed the form. ‘Would you have any idea where I can get this valued?’ He took out the little envelope from an inside pocket and slid it across the desk.
The manager looked at the envelope carefully. ‘Stanley Gibbons,’ he replied without hesitation. ‘They are leaders in the field, and they have an international reputation.’
‘Where would I find them?’
‘They have a branch just up the road. I would recommend that you have a word with Mr Prendergast.’
‘I’m lucky that you’re so well informed,’ said Danny suspiciously.
‘Well, they have banked with us for almost a hundred and fifty years.’
Danny walked out of the bank with an extra £500 in his wallet, and set off in search of Stanley Gibbons. On the way he passed a mobile phone shop, which allowed him to tick another item off his shopping list. After he’d selected the latest model, he asked the young assistant if he knew where Stanley Gibbons was.
‘Another fifty yards on your left,’ he replied.
Danny continued down the road until he saw the sign over the door. Inside, a tall thin man was leaning on the counter turning the pages of a catalogue. He stood up straight the moment Danny came in.
‘Mr Prendergast?’ asked Danny.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘How may I help you?’
Danny took out the envelope and put it on the counter. ‘Mr Watson at Coutts suggested that you might be able to value this for me.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ said Mr Prendergast, picking up a magnifying glass from under the counter. He studied the envelope for some time before he ventured an opinion. ‘The stamp is a first-edition five franc imperial, issued to mark the founding of the modern Olympic Games. The stamp itself is of little value, no more than a few hundred pounds. But there are two other factors that could possibly add to its importance.’
‘And what are they?’ asked Danny.
‘The postmark is dated April sixth, 1896.’
‘And why is that of any significance?’ asked Danny, trying not to sound impatient.
‘That was the date of the opening ceremony of the first modern Olympic Games.’
‘And the second factor?’ asked Danny, not waiting this time.
‘The person the envelope is addressed to,’ said Prendergast, sounding rather pleased with himself.
‘Baron de Coubertin,’ said Danny, not needing to be reminded.
‘Correct,’ said the dealer. ‘It was the baron who founded the modern Olympics, and that is what makes your envelope a collector’s item.’
‘Are you able to place a value on it?’ asked Danny.
‘That’s not easy, sir, as the item is unique. But I would be willing to offer you two thousand pounds for it.’
‘Thank you, but I’d like a little time to think about it,’ replied Danny, and turned to leave.
‘Two thousand two hundred?’ said the dealer as Danny closed the door quietly behind him.
42
DANNY SPENT the next few days settling into The Boltons, not that he thought he’d ever really feel at home in Kensington. That was until he met Molly.
Molly Murphy hailed from County Cork and it was some time before Danny could understand a word she was saying. She must have been about a foot shorter than Danny, and was so thin that he wondered if she had the strength to manage more than a couple of hours’ work a day. He had no idea of her age, although she looked younger than his mother and older than Beth. Her first words to him were, ‘I charge five pounds an hour, cash. I won’t be paying any tax to those English bastards,’ she had added firmly after learning that Sir Nicholas hailed from north of the border, ‘and if you don’t think I’m up to it, I’ll leave at the end of the week.’
Danny kept an eye on Molly for the first couple of days, but it soon became clea
By the end of the second week, Molly had started making his supper as well as washing and ironing his clothes. By the third week he wondered how he had ever survived without her.
Molly’s enterprise allowed Danny to concentrate on other things. Mr Munro had written to let him know that he had served a writ on his uncle. Hugo’s solicitor had allowed the full twenty-one days to pass before acknowledging service.
Mr Munro warned Sir Nicholas that Galbraith had a reputation for taking his time, but assured him that he would keep snapping at his ankles whenever the opportunity arose. Danny wondered how much this snapping would cost. He found out when he turned the page. Attached to Munro’s letter was a bill for four thousand pounds, which covered all the work he had done since the funeral, including the serving of the writ.
Danny checked his bank statement, which had arrived, along with a credit card, in the morning post. Four thousand pounds would make a very large dent on the bottom line and Danny wondered how long he could survive before he would have to throw in the towel; it might have been a cliché but the expression did remind him of happier times in Bow.
During the past week, Danny had bought a laptop and a printer, a silver photo frame, several files, assorted pens, pencils and erasers, as well as reams of paper. He had already begun to build a database on the three men who had been responsible for Bernie’s death, and he spent most of the first month entering everything he knew about Spencer Craig, Gerald Payne and Lawrence Davenport. That didn’t amount to a great deal, but Nick had taught him that it’s easier to pass exams if you’ve put in the research. He had just been about to begin that research when he received Munro’s invoice, which reminded him how quickly his funds were drying up. Then he remembered the envelope. The time had come to seek a second opinion.
He picked up The Times – brought in by Molly every morning – and turned to an article he’d spotted on the Arts pages. An American collector had bought a Klimt for fifty-one million pounds in an auction at somewhere called Sotheby’s.
Danny opened his laptop and Googled Klimt to discover that he was an Austrian Symbolist painter, 1862–1918. He next turned his attention to Sotheby’s, which turned out to be an auction house that specialized in fine art, antiques, books, jewellery and other collectable items. After a few clicks of the mouse, he discovered that collectable items included stamps. Those wishing to seek advice could do so by calling Sotheby’s or by visiting their offices in New Bond Street.
Danny thought he’d take them by surprise, but not today, because he was going to the theatre, and not to see the play. The play was not the thing.
Danny had never been to a West End theatre before, unless he counted a trip on Beth’s twenty-first to see Les Misérables at the Palace Theatre. He hadn’t enjoyed it that much, and didn’t think he’d bother with another musical.
He had phoned the Garrick the previous day and booked a seat for a matinee performance of The Importance of Being Earnest. They had told him to pick up his ticket from the box office fifteen minutes before the curtain rose. Danny arrived a little early, to find that the theatre was almost deserted. He collected his ticket, bought a programme and with the assistance of an usher made his way to the stalls, where he found his seat at the end of row H. Just a handful of people were dotted around.
He opened his programme and read for the first time about how Oscar Wilde’s play had been an instant hit in 1895 when it was first performed at the St James’s Theatre in London. He had to keep standing up to allow other people to take their seats in row H as a steady stream of ticket holders made their way into the theatre.
By the time the lights went down, the Garrick was almost full and the majority of seats seemed to be occupied by young girls. When the curtain rose, Lawrence Davenport was nowhere to be seen, but Danny didn’t have to wait long, because he made his entrance a few moments later. A face he would never forget. One or two of the audience immediately began clapping. Davenport paused before delivering his first line, as though he expected nothing less.
Danny was tempted to charge up on to the stage and tell the assembled gathering what sort of a man Davenport really was, and what had taken place at the Dunlop Arms the night their hero had stood and watched Spencer Craig stab his best friend to death. How differently he had acted in the alley from the swaggering, confident man he now portrayed. On that occasion he had given a far more convincing performance as a coward.
Like the young girls in the audience, Danny’s eyes never left Davenport. As the performance continued, it became clear that if there was a mirror to gaze in, Davenport would find it. By the time the curtain fell for the interval, Danny felt he had seen quite enough of Lawrence Davenport to know just how much he’d appreciate a few matinees in jail. Danny would have returned to The Boltons and brought his file up to date if he hadn’t found to his surprise how much he was enjoying the play.
He followed the jostling crowd into a packed bar and waited in a long queue while one barman tried manfully to serve all his would-be customers. Finally Danny gave up, and decided to use the time to read his programme and learn more about Oscar Wilde, who he wished had featured on the A-level syllabus. He became distracted by a high-pitched conversation that was taking place between two girls standing at the corner of the bar.
‘What did you think of Larry?’ asked the first.
‘He’s wonderful,’ came back the reply. ‘Pity he’s gay.’
‘But are you enjoying the play?’
‘Oh, yes. I’m coming again on closing night.’
‘How did you manage to get tickets?’
‘One of the stage hands lives in our street.’
‘Does that mean you’ll be going to the party afterwards?’
‘Only if I agree to be his date for the night.’
‘Do you think you’ll get to meet Larry?’
‘It’s the only reason I said I’d go out with him.’
A bell sounded three times and several customers quickly downed their drinks before drifting back into the auditorium to take their seats. Danny followed in their wake.
When the curtain rose again, Danny became so engrossed in the play that he almost forgot his real purpose for being there. While the girls’ attention remained firmly focused on Dr Beresford, Danny sat back waiting to find out which one of two men would turn out to be Earnest.
When the curtain fell and the cast took their bows, the audience rose to their feet, shouting and screaming, just as Beth had done that night, but a different kind of scream. It only made Danny more determined that they should find out the truth about their flawed idol.
After the final curtain call, the chattering crowd spilled out of the theatre on to the pavement. Some headed straight for the stage door, but Danny made his way back to the box office.
The box office manager smiled. ‘Enjoy the show?’
‘Yes, thank you. Do you by any chance have a ticket for the closing night?’
‘Afraid not, sir. Sold out.’
‘Just a single?’ said Danny hopefully. ‘I don’t mind where I sit.’
The box office manager checked his screen and studied the seating plan for the last performance. ‘I do have a single seat in row W.’
‘I’ll take it,’ said Danny, passing over his credit card. ‘Does that allow me to attend the party afterwards?’
‘No, I’m afraid not,’ said the manager with a smile. ‘That’s by invitation only.’ He swiped Danny’s card, ‘Sir Nicholas Moncrieff,’ he said, looking at him more closely.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Danny.
The manager printed out a single ticket, took an envelope from below the counter and slipped the ticket inside.
Danny continued to read the programme on the
THE GARRICK THEATRE
invites you to the closing-night party of
The Importance of Being Earnest
at the Dorchester
Saturday 14th September 2002
Admittance by ticket only
11.00 p.m. till heaven knows when
Danny suddenly realized the importance of being Sir Nicholas.
43
‘HOW INTERESTING. How very interesting,’ said Mr Blundell as he placed his magnifying glass back on the table and smiled at his potential customer.
‘How much is it worth?’ asked Danny.
‘I have no idea,’ Blundell admitted.
‘But I was told you were one of the leading experts in the field.’
‘And I like to think I am,’ replied Blundell, ‘but in thirty years in the business I’ve never come across anything quite like this.’ He picked up his magnifying glass again, bent down and studied the envelope more closely. ‘The stamp itself is not all that uncommon, but one franked on the day of the opening ceremony is far more rare. And for the envelope to be addressed to Baron de Coubertin . . .’
‘The founder of the modern Olympics,’ said Danny. ‘Must be even rarer.’
‘If not unique,’ suggested Blundell. He ran the magnifying glass over the envelope once again. ‘It’s extremely difficult to put a value on it.’