The Convoluted Adventure of My Novel
Chapter 1.
As a rule Heinrich von Schneemann did not attend the funerals of people whose death he was responsible for, but in this case he had made an exception.
Several dozen people were crowded by the graveside so he was able to remain discreetly at the rear and observe the ceremony.
“Such a shame. Such a young man. So full of promise.”
“Indeed Madam.” He turned to the elderly lady beside him, dipped his head in greeting. “Mrs Killian is it not?”
“Well remembered Mr Schneemann.” She sighed. He did not try to offer his hand as he was holding his gloves and stick in one and his hat in the other. Bareheaded from respect. At least it was a warm day, even if it was overcast. She seemed comfortable in her mourning black, from the wide hat to the dull boots just visible under the long, full skirt.
“I used to think it a pity that he did not marry his childhood sweetheart. See her down there, behind Mr Arthur. Today, though, I think it a mercy. She mourns as a friend rather than as a bereaved wife.”
He could not recall the exact relationship of the lady to the central figure of today’s events – his aunt’s sister perhaps? He had been introduced to her at a garden party the previous summer before the unfortunate train of events that had ended with them out here.
“I can only offer my condolences.”
“And I mine. Also my appreciation for your testimony at the inquest. It saved his dear mother some distress.”
Schneemann swallowed, feeling uncomfortable. The vicar continued his address. Why was it taking so long? The interminable funeral service inside the church had covered all this, he thought. At the graveside it should just be the brief words of committal.
“It was the least I could do. Testifying it was an accident, well. I can assure you that as far I as I know he did not take his own life.”
“Not everyone was so sure, Mr Schneemann. There were those questions about irregularities in the accounts of the Widows and Orphans Relief Fund.”
Schneemann revised his estimate of her intelligence upwards by two steps and her good sense in talking to distant acquaintances about sensitive affairs down by a similar amount. “It is not my place to comment on that subject.”
“Oh no. Of course not.” He thought that she might nevertheless attempt to continue on the topic when they were joined by another lady. Of medium height, moving stiffly with a cane, her face concealed by a thick veil held down by a large black hat, hands hidden by gloves, everything else covered in a large old fashioned mourning dress that reached the ground. She croaked a greeting.
“Mrs Perse.” Mrs Killian responded gloomily. “This is Mr Schneemann, a friend of Albert. He was with him the day before... it happened.”
“Oh yes.” She made a hissing sigh. “The one who could do nothing.”
“To my shame madam.” He felt no shame, let alone guilt. Albert had received exactly what he deserved.
At long last the coffin was being lowered into the hole. Someone, probably the mother, was crying loudly. Schneemann was thankful to be on the periphery of things. He would have preferred to stay away entirely. Good manners compelled his attendance and it was as well to be on hand should something untoward should occur.
Imagine the fuss if someone had wanted to view the body. That could have embarrassed all his plans.
Mrs Killian was talking about the arrangements. “They did not intend to have the funeral today, but when the coronation was postponed it seemed prudent to have it as swiftly as possible.” She nodded thoughtfully. “Of course all our prayers are with the King for a swift recovery.”
As if to disagree with her the vicar finished his final part of the ceremony, nodding in a satisfied manner to the chorus of amens. Schneemann had hoped it was over but some male members of the family were incompetently trying to shovel token clods of earth into the grave. It seemed wasteful; the gravediggers standing off to the side could do the task much more efficiently and would get paid even if the relatives managed to complete the job.
He clamped down on his cynicism about funerals. It did no good to laugh at a farce like today with Uncle Robert having to be saved from falling red-face first into the pile of earth by his ten year old son, the tedious vicar smilingly accepting unearned compliments, the exaggerated mourning of the fashionable friends. Not to mention his own part. Yet if it brought comfort to anyone then he would let them continue, keeping his bitter laughter to himself.
Chapter continues after the break
At last they turned to go. He found himself offering an arm to Mrs Perse who muttered thanks to him, then took it with a powerful grip. They moved slowly towards the carriages. The word had gone about that no automobiles were to be used. Schneemann approved; for all their noisy speed he preferred a good horse.
“Ride with me, Mr Schneemann.” It seemed she had a coach of her own. Delayed by her infirmity they were one of the last to leave. He waved his hat to the Blenkinsopps with whom he had arrived, indicating that they should leave without him.
London was overflowing with people; houses were being demolished and replaced with tall blocks of flats and new dwellings sprang up wherever a bus line or railway station would serve them. Just as the homes of the living were full, so were those of the dead. Churchyards and cemeteries were packed, and there was no land in central London left to bury anyone. So they had come out here to Surrey, to deposit the worldly remains of Albert Minton in the great Queensbury necropolis.
It spread over many acres of countryside. There were fields of square, sparsely inscribed headstones standing watch over small grassy graves. Larger family plots were covered in gravel with bigger, individually decorated stone looming at the end. Further over he could see a small village of mausoleums, from single coffin size to great gloomy two story stone monstrosities. He was not a morbid man yet he had to hold in a shudder as they passed a disapproving angel standing on the back of a graven lion.
Schneemann handed Mrs Perse up into the carriage, a small, modern model pulled by a matching pair of black horses. Both the coachman and the burly carriage groom were dressed in thick boots and somewhat ill-fitting black clothes. A slight affection there; as Mrs Perse was not a relative (so far as he knew) putting her servants into mourning was unusual.
He avoided the unnecessary help of the servant into the coach and sat down facing forward, opposite Mrs Perse, while the man clumsily folded the step and jammed the door shut. The coach pulled away with a jerk.
“Very sad day Mrs Perse,” he said “Most regrettable.” He regretted ending up here, riding in a coach with a lady unknown to him. Although it kept him away from curious family members who might ask him difficult questions, all he had in common with the stranger was the funeral and the dead man. It was inevitable that the conversation would tend towards that. Perhaps he should try a different thread. “Did you come far?”
“Not too far,” she groaned. “From Worthing.”
“How was your journey?” That was quite a distance to travel by carriage, more than forty miles. She seemed to understand his implied question.
“We came up yesterday. I do not like the railways.” She shuddered and almost whispered the next part. “My dear husband died in a railway dining car.”
“I’m sorry to hear that Madam.” They had reached the exit from the graveyard. Schneemann was surprised to see them turn right rather than left with the others. Although he might have preferred to miss the reception at The Chequers Inn it would attract comment if he did not make an appearance.
“Ah, Mrs Perse. Are we going to the reception?”
“Do not worry Mr Schneemann. You will arrive at your correct destination.” Her voice sounded clearer, younger.
Also familiar.
He snatched the heavy veil away from her to reveal broad brown eyes, a freckled nose and the sharp grin of a woman who was probably no older than thirty. “Miss Puce.”
Andromeda Puce widened her smile. “Why, hello Heinrich. Did you enjoy the theatrics as much as I did? I wondered if you were ever going to catch on. Ah, ah. Please don’t move again.” She had produced a revolver from about her person.
“You are indeed a mistress of disguise. However this seems, if you will forgive the term, overly dramatic. If you wished an interview you could have sent a message. I would have happily waited on you.”
She shook her head. “I fear that is a polite fiction. If I had tried to arrange a meeting conventionally I suspect that it would not have ended happily for me.”
He nodded noncommittally. “Well, as you have me at a disadvantage, perhaps you can suggest a topic of conversation.”
“The Widows and Orphans Relief Fund. What happened to it?”
“Really Miss Puce, I am at a loss...”
She gestured firmly with the pistol. “Really Heinrich. Do not prevaricate. When I tell you that I require an answer, know that the consequences will be most unpleasant if you fail to do so.”
“I see.” He uncrossed his legs. “I presume that it was you and your associates who were blackmailing Albert before his unfortunate death. And that was why he made that... unaccountable transfer of funds. Yet you think that I have something to do with the situation?”
She sighed. “Why yes. You were the person he went to that evening. You were the last to see him alive. I neither know nor care about your involvement in his death. I do care that we never received our payment. So I ask again and, I’m afraid, for the last time. Where is the money?”
He frowned. “I’m sorry to disappoint you. I do not have it.” He raised one hand. “Wait. I admit that I was involved in the movement of the assets, but they are no longer under my control. They have been deposited at Shaw Brother’s bank, in the account of the Widows and Orphans Relief Fund.”
An expression of puzzlement crossed her face. “You returned the money? Almost a hundred thousand pounds? That makes no sense.”
Time for a little deception. Even the sternest of society hostesses would confess that lying to someone holding a gun on you is barely impolite. “Well, I must admit that I did not undertake this service out of the goodness of my heart. I have been amply rewarded.” He brushed some dust from his coat sleeve with his glove. “I shall not only be paid, everyone who knows shall be grateful and happy to see me.”
Her head jerked upright. “You shall be paid? So you have not yet?” Her smile reappeared. “A gentlemen as experienced and wise as yourself would surely require cash on delivery.”
He winced at the phrase ‘cash on delivery’, more commonly associated with tradesmen than gentlemen, and remained silent. She continued. “If so, assuming that you have told me the truth, the money is in the account, but you have not yet informed the trustees. In fact, unless I miss my guess, you will still have access to that account.” She raised the gun. “Please confirm if I am correct in my speculations.”
He nodded reluctantly. “In fact you are. Though that does mean that shooting me would be a very poor use of this situation.” As it happened the money was back with the very puzzled trustees and Schneemann had received neither a single penny nor a single thank you. They remained quite ignorant of his involvement.
“No doubt, although it would give me quite some personal satisfaction.” She frowned, pondering for a moment. The carriage rocked as it turned a corner. She knocked on the communication hatch and the driver opened it. “To London, Shacklebury. And hurry.”
Schneemann carefully reached into his waistcoat pocket and checked the time. “If you wish to be sure to reach the bank before it closes you might do better to catch the train.”
“I do not like the railways.” She gave a toothy smile. “Especially for business like this. Too easy for you to try and make an escape. I would hate for you to have an accident in the dining car.”
“Like your late husband,” He muttered, as the carriage slowed. Glancing out the window he could see a cart piled high with potatoes. “Yet the railway has one advantage.”
“Oh? Do tell Heinrich.”
“I would not try this on a moving train.” He flipped up his stick, catching Miss Puce on the wrist. She cried out as the revolver fell from her hand. Hearing the commotion the driver pulled back on the reins, slowing the carriage still further. Schneemann shoved open the door and leapt out, narrowly avoiding a kick from her long narrow shoe.
“You cad,” he heard, “To strike a lady!”
Rather than stay and debate the niceties of correct manners while being coerced at gunpoint he dodged around the potato cart and ran for the houses beyond. There were a number of staring faces at the crossroads including several idlers outside the country inn. Schneemann jammed his hat on but realised that a running man in black topcoat and mourning attire would be scarcely less notable even with his head decently covered.
Outrunning a carriage was a losing proposition. If he must be caught, better to be somewhere where he would be guaranteed witnesses.
He flew under the arch and into the yard of the inn, slowing just enough to avoid running face first into the heavy black wooden door. Gathering his wits he stepped inside.
He ignored the curtseying maid and marched forward into the gloomy passages, calling for the landlord. He found him sitting on a stool in the overly warm public room, gossiping with his cronies.
“Does this establishment have a telephone my good man?”
He shook his balding, liver spotted head. “I’m sorry sir. But I can send the boy to the post office at Farthingay Junction. It’s only three quarters of a mile.”
Schneemann shook his head, catching his hat on a low beam. He caught it neatly. “I might as well go myself.” Pretending a sudden thought he said, “Perhaps you can arrange something?”
At the thought of a paying customer the landlord stood, suddenly energetic. “Jonathan! Go harness the trap. You’re taking this gentleman to the Junction.” He turned back to Schneemann. “Some refreshment while you’re waiting sir?”
“Brandy and water.” He handed over a guinea. “But make it quick. I don’t want to wait.”
It was at that moment that they were joined by Miss Puce’s associates, the tall coachman who had surprisingly delicate features and the shorter, much burlier groom. “There he is,” said the latter, showing a gift for the obvious.
Schneemann turned to them, a look of mild curiosity on his face, his stick held in loosely in his right hand. The landlord also faced them. “Can I help you?”
The groom stepped forward. “We want a word with this fellow.”
“And yet I do not wish to have a word with you.” Schneemann piled a hundredweight of scorn onto the final word.
The landlord looked from the well dressed, well spoken gentleman who had just handed him money to the two men in ill fitting black who seemed to be threatening him. “Right then my good men. I think you’d better go outside.”
The coachman, Shacklebury if Schneemann recalled his name correctly, proved himself to be the brains of the partnership. “I’m sorry to disagree with you in your own house landlord. We want to talk to this ‘ere gentleman about his behaviour towards my daughter.”
He could feel the sympathy of the room drain away from him. He heard himself say “I’m sure I don’t know what you are referring to,” but it was a weak response, an instinctive denial.
“She’s lead a sheltered life, and without any womenfolk about her. I’ve tried to teach her the ways of the world since my dear Maud died, but there’s only so much a man can do while earning an honest living.”
“Nonsense.”
The man held his hands, appealing to the onlookers. “Now he denies it, but while she was away with friends he took advantage of her innocence... now wait a minute!”
Schneemann realised to his chagrin that this thug’s sob story was going to win over this rough crowd better than any tale of his own. They all liked to think they had hearts of gold, no matter how many strangers they cheated. So he strolled to one of the internal doors.
“I have no idea what these... gentlemen are talking about. I have business elsewhere, so I say goodbye.”
Before anyone could stop him he stepped through into the hallway and dashed towards the sitting room at the end. There he closed the door, blocking it with a sideboard, opened the window into the yard and stepped out.
Jonathan was leading a horse out to the waiting trap. Schneemann put his hat on his head, tucked his cane under his arm and took the leading rein from him. “It seems a nice day for a ride, so there’s no need to harness this fellow.”
As he swung himself up onto the back of the horse, Jonathan stammered “She’s a mare sir. Name of Florence. Sir, you have no saddle, no stirrups...”
“Thank you Jonathan.” He would have tipped him, but Florence, not used to bareback riders, was requiring the use of both hands. “That will be all.”
He tapped at Florence’s flank with his heels, then again as she ambled towards the archway. He could hear swearing from the window behind him so he kicked again and she trotted out. He turned towards the west and tried to get more speed from the reluctant mare.
“Heinrich!” A dark figure tried to intercept him, and he was able to avoid her as they finally reached a canter. “Come back here!”
His hat was slipping, so he took the opportunity to wave it at his pursuers. “Sadly I must refuse your invitation. Good day Miss Puce!”
The Convoluted Adventure of the Vengeful Yankee Financier can be purchased in paperback and for Kindle on Amazon, and in other ebook formats at Smashwords and a number of other affiliated online bookstores.
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