The Satan Sampler Page 2

Arthur Bellamy of Bellamy and Franks was a fresh-faced, white-haired man in his sixties and the last of a line of Bellamys who had been solicitors for the Seyton family for over a hundred years. When he went, as Richard Seyton well knew, his place would be taken by a nephew on the distaff side. Franks and his line had long died out. Bellamy was sole master in this office . high above Trafalgar Square whose turgid traffic Seyton half-watched as the man slowly and with a precise diction read Punch’s will to him. At his side was a glass of dry sherry and another stood on the large Chippendale pie-crust table at Seyton’s elbow. Bellamy’s sherry was traditional.

  The will was much as he had expected. The Hall, Dower House—with all contents—came to him and the farmlands on lease and tenure. There were various bequests to tenants and friends and a Trust Fund for Roger. He had sat here with Punch and heard his father’s will read and had then been requested to leave them while Bellamy had a few private words with Punch. He had never asked Punch what the few private words were about and Punch had never enlightened him and he had known better than to show his curiosity. He sat, quite content to listen without interruption. He already knew the real state of affairs. Punch had been a bad manager. Not spendthrift, but just inept . . . too easy-going, thinking he had all the time in the world to pull things together.

  When Bellamy had finished reading he looked up and said, “Well, Richard?”

  “It’s much as I expected. Gooch, Hill and Fairton are trying to make sense of the financial side, I presume?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d like to put someone in from my office to work with them.”

  “Uum . . . they mightn’t take kindly to that.”

  “Maybe not—but that’s what I want. So I’ll be very glad if you will arrange it. But I can guess what the final situation will be.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid it’s not going to be very good. Harry was rather casual about that side.”

  Seyton smiled. He had never heard Bellamy refer to his brother as Punch. He said, “I can handle it. But I just want to know the real position as soon as possible.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. All right, I’ll arrange it. Now there’s just one other thing . . He paused and then chuckled. “You won’t know why, but I imagine you remember that when your father died and you and Harry came here you were requested to leave the room after the will had been read because I wanted to be alone with Harry?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “It was to give him this.” He picked up a long envelope at his side and handed it across the desk. It was an old worn envelope, foxed and stained with age and thick at the back with the remains of broken wax seals. There was no inscription on the plain side. “I would like you to open it and read the contents—of which I must know nothing—and then I must reseal it before you and it remains here in safe custody. My father did this a few times for your family and I have done it twice before. I may say that the envelope and its contents have been renewed over the years. The last occasion was in my grandfather’s time. This will help you.” He handed over a sharp-bladed steel paper knife. “Don’t worry if you ruin the envelope. I’ll give you another to replace it.”

  Partly amused, partly curious, Seyton began to work the seals free. Punch had done this once and his father before. Just now and again, no matter his feeling for tradition and family, he found his Seyton temperament no proof against an element of the ridiculous and arcane which had been and was common to them all. What had once been kept secret in the family for the sake of their own security was now no more than ritual. No member of the family ever went to the Hall chapel on Easter Sunday without wearing or carrying a bunch of white violets because once the carrying of the flowers by a member of the family had signalled to one of their kin hidden there that as darkness fell on the Holy Day he must be ready to leave that night since from treachery his hiding place was no longer secure.

  He freed the envelope flap and from within drew a single folded sheet of thick paper covered with writing faded to the colour of dead oak leaves. On it were a few lines in a thin, elegant script. Victorian. He read with difficulty.

  He who would leave the Hall unseen must

  take the old Squire’s way.

  He who would enter the Hall unseen must

  pass by long silent Sarah.

  Bellamy said quietly, “You seem amused, Richard. So was Harry.”

  “I’m sure he was. Small boys sometimes ferret out the secrets of their elders. It’s a nice tradition, but of no importance.”

  “Well, anyway, let us remain faithful to tradition. It’s a good habit which is dying fast in this country.”

  “I’ll say Amen to that.”

  Seyton slipped the note back into the envelope and Bellamy passed him wax and a box of matches so that he could reseal it. As he did this, he .said, “Before I go there’s one thing I want done. How long has the lease on the Hall got to run? Two or three years, is it? I want them out and I’m prepared to buy them out generously.”

  Bellamy was silent for a while, watching the slow drip of the red wax on to the envelope, then he said, “Did Harry never tell you? The lease was given for five years in the first place. That was three years ago. But two years ago at their instigation he renegotiated the lease—at a very handsome figure—for twenty years.”

  “For what?” Seyton was on his feet.

  “For twenty years.”

  Angrily he said, “Well, I can’t have that! The Hall’s mine now and I want it! It’s the Seyton home! Sorry . . . I didn’t mean to blow my top. But I can’t have it. I don’t want those people there. No matter how worthy they are, and no matter what help they were to Punch. The damn fool. Why did he do that without saying a word to me?”

  Quietly Bellamy said, “Because, Richard, like all of us, he wasn’t able to foresee the future. He did what he thought was best to keep the place together. However, if it is your wish, I’ll approach them and see what they say. But it will be an expensive business.”

  “I realize that. But I don’t care what it costs. I want them out. They’ll agree if the price is made right.”

  “I wonder?”

  “I don’t. There isn’t anything of that kind which can’t be bought if the price is right. And I can afford it. Have you got the lease—or a copy?”

  “The original is at the Dower House. Harry had it. But yes, I’ve a copy. Would you like it?”

  “Please.”

  He waited while Bellamy telephoned to his main office for the copy to be sent up. Listening to Bellamy and waiting for him, he realized that close though he and Punch were there had been—and this perhaps exaggerated since his own financial successes—a growing stubbornness and arrogance in his brother which had slowly begun to impair the relationship between them. Where Punch had always turned to him for advice—particularly over money and the running of the estate and the Hall—he had more and more acted on his own. What a damn fool thing to have extended the Hall lease for twenty years. Well, it was done—and now he would have to undo it. The Hall and the estate were going to be what they had once been.

  A clerk brought in the lease document and, when he had gone, Bellamy said, “Shall I read it to you?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll take it with me. On second thoughts, too—I’ll handle it direct myself.” Glancing at the document, he went on, “Who’s the top man of this Foundation?”

  “You’ll see his signature at the end. Charles Bernard Felbeck. An old Yorkshire family. Rags to riches.”

  “Then he’ll be a sensible man and know the value of money.”

  “Maybe . . . I certainly hope so. But don’t rush him.” Seyton smiled. “I can’t imagine that I’ll have to. Brass talks. Every man has a price.”

  Bellamy shook his head. “You don’t believe that.”

  Seyton grinned. “No. Let’s say most men.”

  At his office suite in Curzon Street some time later, Seyton called in Miss Figgins, his private secretary. Tall, angular, with mild brown eyes, around his
own age, hailing from the Welsh side of the Wye beyond Hay-on-Wye, her birth and blood clear in her voice, known to him since the day she had first come to work in the Estate Office as a girl of sixteen, often saving himself and Punch from many a strapping, she was beyond price and spoke her mind without fear or favour.

  “Welcome back, Mr Richard.”

  “Thank you, Figgy. And don’t say anything about Punch. We both feel the same.”

  She nodded and then said, a little too briskly, “There’s a fair bit of stuff waiting for you to clear up.”

  “Let me have it and I’ll do it today. Max Beaton is coming over soon. He’ll hold the fort here for a while. Be nice to him. He’s frightened of you.”

  She smiled. “Pretends to be.”

  He handed her the lease document. “I want you to read this and tell me if you can see any way of breaking it. Also I want you to get what you can about the man who is the principal signatory—Charles Felbeck.”

  “You want to upset it?”

  “Mind reader.”

  “No, clear on your face. And, anyway, I could have guessed it. Inscrutable is one thing you’ve never been. Or devious. Always a straight line across country. You handle a fish the same way, too. That’s why they break you so often. You’ll be wanting an appointment with him, I imagine?”

  “Yes. But I want what you can get on him first. You’ve met him?”

  “Once or twice.”

  “Like him?”

  “He seems a nice enough gentleman. You’ll see for yourself. Are you back at the hotel now?”

  “Yes.”

  “You should marry her, you know, Mr Richard.”

  Seyton laughed. “I thought you didn’t like her?”

  “Then you thought wrong. I don’t like the situation. The Hall’s yours now and it needs a mistress.”

  “I agree. But unless we can do something about Mr Felbeck it won’t be really mine for twenty years.”

  Figgins nodded, then, her brown eyes steady on him, said, “Mister Harry—God rest his dear soul—did what he thought was for the best. There was no way he could keep things going on his own——”

  “But twenty years! That was a long time to tie the Hall up.”

  “At his age? What’s the point of living if you’re always thinking you may be dead tomorrow?”

  “True, Figgy. I’d probably have done the same in his place.”

  “Maybe. Anyway—I’ll get this stuff for you.”

  An hour later Figgins brought him the information she had gathered about Charles Felbeck. Charles Bernard Felbeck had been born in 1921, and had been educated at Hanley High School and St John’s College, Oxford. He was the son of the late Thomas Race Felbeck and Anne Felbeck, both now dead. Felbeck had been married in 1946 and had two sons and one daughter. His principal residence was Felbeck Grange in Yorkshire, not far from Ripon. His clubs were the United Oxford and Cambridge and the Athenaeum. He came from an old family of woollen mill owners. Over the years the family concern had grown into a small business empire with varied interests . . . cellulose acetate yarn producers, mail order clothing, jewellers and multiple stores. He was the chairman of Felbeck Textiles Ltd, Parkway Stores Ltd, and Felbeck (Holdings) Ltd, all of whose head offices were located at Bradford House, Gracechurch Street, London. His grandfather had created and endowed the Felbeck Christian Heritage Foundation which had originally given aid for the repair and maintenance of the fabric of cathedrals and churches (irrespective of denomination) and, in addition, had collected religious works of art and ancient ecclesiastical sculptures and artefacts. Over the years—as the Foundation had grown wealthier from donations, legacies and the shrewd management of its own funds—the organization had branched out to support various charities, welfare projects, old people’s homes and the relief world-wide of famine and the ravages of natural disasters. Figgins had made a note—They are no soft touch for woolly-minded do-gooders. So far as breaking the agreement is concerned—unless Felbeck succumbs to your charms—then you have only clause seven which, considering the nature of the Foundation, is a hope remoter than remote.

  And clause seven, he had already considered and dismissed. All that was left to him was charm. Well, Felbeck came from an old family—one that had never cared a jot about titles and honours clearly—like his own—so he might, if the compensation were right, have a soft spot for ancestral feeling. Beyond that, at the moment, he did not care to speculate in any detail. All he knew was that he was not going to wait twenty years for the lease to fall in.

  CHAPTER TWO

  SEYTON SAW CHARLES FELBECK that evening. He was a little surprised at the promptness with which the man had given him the appointment until almost the first thing the man said after their formal greetings was that he was travelling to Yorkshire the next day. The flat overlooked Park Lane and was plainly but solidly furnished. Over the fireplace of the sitting room was a large pen-and-ink drawing of Ripon Cathedral. Seeing Seyton’s eyes on it, Felbeck said as he handed him a whisky and soda, “Do you like it?”

  “Yes, I do. It’s a very fine drawing.”

  “Its appeal is also sentimental to me. I was christened and confirmed there. Lovely, isn’t it? The west front and twin towers are fine specimens of Early English architecture. It was founded on the ruins of St Wilfred’s Abbey of the seventh century.” He nodded across the room to another drawing clearly of the same hand, and went on, “That’s Felbeck Grange. Nothing like as old—that was built with money that came from the Felbeck mills, but on the site of the farmhouse which was the home of the family until it went into wool. I’m sorry my wife isn’t here—she would like to have met you. By the way, in case you don’t know, we both went to the funeral of your brother. We’d met him quite a few times and were very fond of him.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  As the man had been speaking Seyton had been studying him. He was a short, hard little nut of a man, his fair hair thin over his scalp and sporting a crisp, well-trimmed military moustache. His face was lined, squarish, almost pugnacious in repose, and the nose was squashed back as though it had taken a lot of punishment in the ring during its time—which later Seyton learned was true for Felbeck had been a well-known amateur boxer.

  “May I say, too, that we got on very well. In a way the same kind of family—though yours of course can trace a longer recorded history. But springing from one place and holding on to it. And no titles, no honours. Not worth a damn these days, anyway. The only honour a man needs lies in the cultivation of his own character and abilities and a dedication to the spirit of self-enterprise and self-discipline. Oh, dear——” he made a sudden boyish grimace half of reproach and half of apology, “——I do apologize. Riding the hobby horse.”

  Seyton laughed, suddenly liking the man where he had half expected to be opposed to him since he stood in the way of his own hard intentions. “No apology is needed. I agree with you. Unfortunately, however, I come riding my own hobby horse to ask a favour of you which I am sure you will appreciate.”

  “I can guess what you want. Oh, yes, that’s not difficult. I’d feel the same were I in your place.” He sat down and Seyton noticed that he was drinking plain soda water.

  “Then I’ll be frank. My brother would never take any help from me—and anyway until fairly recently I had none to offer. But we both shared one desire. To keep Seyton Hall and its lands in the family——”

  “My dear Seyton, you don’t have to say any more. I know how you feel and I can guess what you want. And I have the greatest sympathy with your desire. But you must see that over the years while the Foundation has had its headquarters at Seyton Hall we have spent a lot of money, not merely on the building and the adjacent grounds, but also in recruiting staff and housing them in the Hall and the district and, in fact, and I say it with pride, establishing one of the finest collections of Christian ecclesiastical treasures in the world to be housed in a secular building.” He suddenly grinned impishly. “And now you want us to up sticks and a
way. Is that it?”

  “Broadly speaking, yes. Naturally there must be a reasonable time allowed to you—and, equally, adequate compensation to be made to you for your expenses and for waiving the lease.”

  “That could cost you a lot of money.”

  “I know—and I’m prepared to meet the cost which, of course, would include a reasonable amount for the inconvenience which the Foundation would temporarily suffer.” Felbeck fingered his short moustache for a moment and then, an impish light in his eyes, asked, “You could afford all this? Pardon my directness.”

  Seyton laughed. “If I couldn’t, Mr Felbeck, I wouldn’t be here wasting your time. Yes, I can afford it. It’s the one thing I want and——”

  “And,” interrupted Felbeck with a pout of his under lip, “you’re a very determined man when you want something. Saints and soldiers and merchant princes. Men with ideas and visions and ambition—their logic and spirit aren’t found loitering on street corners. The Church, the Army and the Yeomanry. No country can abuse them except at its own peril.” With a sudden harshness in his voice he went on, “I mean that! And it is just that peril we face today!”

  “I agree. But of the three neither the Church nor the Army is anything without the land. Man springs from the land and lives by it—nobody in this country can deny the hunger for land all men have. Walk through any town or village and look at the gardens. Look at the Park out there. Where there’s no greenness the eyes of man grow dull. .He broke off, embarrassed more for himself than Felbeck, and then added, “I’m sorry—but that’s how I feel.”

  “There’s no need for apologies. I feel exactly the same. I say more, too. If the matter were entirely in my hands I would agree at once that you should have what you want and at a fair valuation. But, unfortunately, the decision is not in my hands. You see, Seyton, the Felbeck Foundation is run by a Board of Governors—a body of eminent men and women from many walks of life. I am, it’s true, the Chairman of the Foundation and have considerable influence over them, but in fact I can take part only indirectly in their decisions. There are eight Governors, all with votes. But as Chairman I only have a casting vote in the event of an equal number of votes for and against a proposition.” He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “I wish it were otherwise—but that is the way my grandfather had the constitution framed. So you see, I can’t speak for the other Governors. But I can say that they are a body of very reasonable people.”