Debts of Dishonour

Book 0: Imogen Quy Mysteries

by Jill Paton Walsh

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

Imogen Quy returns after a decade to solve another intriguing Cambridge mystery.

Hoping to attract a generous endowment, St Agatha's College, Cambridge, invites fabulously wealthy Sir Julius Farran to dine. The evening is a disaster for everyone but Imogen Quy: Farran asks her to come and work for him.

She declines, but when Farran dies, suddenly and shockingly, she has to look into it. His death left a large hole in his company accounts that could mean financial ruin for St Agatha's.

To save her college, Imogen starts to cast her cool eye over the financier's heirs, employees and enemies. What is right about the death of Sir Julius? What is wrong about it? And why did it happen? After all, her name rhymes with ''why''.

Release date: November 22, 2012

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 272

Sample

Chapter 1

‘Ah, Miss Quy!’ said the Master of St Agatha’s College, Cambridge. ‘Imogen! I’m glad I’ve caught you. I want to ask a favour of you.’

Imogen Quy, closing behind her the door of the room in Fountain Court which served as her office, went across the court towards him, smiling. She liked Sir William; between Master and college nurse there was long-standing affection.

‘Whatever it is, the answer’s yes,’ she said.

‘I’d be grateful if you would dine at High Table next Thursday.’

Imogen didn’t often dine at High Table, though as a fellow of the college she was entitled to do so. Usually she had supper at home with her lodgers Fran and Josh.

‘I’m afraid there’s an ulterior motive,’ Sir William said. ‘It will be particularly helpful that evening to have with us a good conversationalist who is also a pretty woman.’

‘Flattery, flattery,’ said Imogen. She was thirty-five and didn’t regard herself as a beauty, though more than one man had been attracted to her in his day. ‘And isn’t High Table conversation supposed to be noted for wit and brilliance rather than feminine charm?’

‘It’s an unusual occasion. We have a rich and important man dining with us, who may be heavy going. He doesn’t have much in the way of cultural interests, or so I’m told, and he wouldn’t be entertained by college gossip. I’m sure a female face and voice will cheer things up.’

‘Won’t Dr Longland-Smith be there? Or Mrs Mayhew?’

‘Sue Longland-Smith is away on her sabbatical, and ­ Belinda Mayhew will be giving a lecture at Bristol.’

‘So I’m a fallback. I’m inclined to think I should feel insulted.’

Sir William was embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I do seem to put my foot in it these days.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Imogen said. ‘I shall look forward to being there. It sounds intriguing. Who is this very rich man whose presence seems to be a problem?’

‘He’s actually an alumnus of the college. You must have heard of him. Sir Julius Farran. He heads the Farran Group. It’s a big financial conglomerate which he built from scratch. Somebody called him the Takeover King. He buys and sells whole companies, and is massively wealthy – although, to tell you the truth, it makes me feel a little uneasy to think of concerns that are making real things, using real skills, employing real people and providing livelihoods, being bought and sold over the heads of the people who work for them.’

‘It doesn’t sound as if you approve of Sir Julius.’

‘Well, perhaps I should be careful about jumping to conclusions. I don’t really know a great deal about the world of business. The new bursar, Peter Wetherby – have you met him yet? – says that Farran is a genius in his way, and often does a company a power of good. Shakes it up and makes it perform.’

‘And he’s coming to dine in college.’

‘Yes, at Wetherby’s suggestion. It’s the first time Farran has been here since I became Master, and I believe the first time since he went down, all those years ago. Actually he has a right to dine in college. Any of our MAs can do so twice a year if they care to arrange it. I understand Farran didn’t distinguish himself as a student and only scraped a third. He was busying away outside, though, and I gather had made quite a lot of money by the time he went down. In due course he paid the fee and took his MA. He hasn’t shown any interest in the college since then, so far as I know. But anyway, he’s coming next Thursday, and bringing young Andrew Duncombe with him. You remember Andrew, of course. The most brilliant economist we’ve had in years. He left us; threw up his fellowship to join the Farran outfit. You’re looking startled, Imogen.’

‘Yes, I am, a little. I remember Andrew Duncombe well. Very well. But I wasn’t expecting to see him.’

‘Perhaps you thought, as many of us did, that Andrew wouldn’t show his face here again, having left us so suddenly, without warning. But we shouldn’t bear malice, should we? I believe he’s become Farran’s right-hand man. He rang me the other day to warn me that the great man would be coming and to give me a few tips on how to deal with him. The tips, he said, were off the record. Ply him with plenty of wine, keep the conversation general and lively, don’t let him get on his high horse, don’t argue with him, because he can be difficult if crossed ...’

‘And make sure you have a resident pretty woman.’

‘Oh, really!’ said Sir William. ‘I’ve apologised once. Once is enough.’

‘It sounds like an irresistible occasion,’ Imogen said. ‘Thank you very much. I’ll look forward to Thursday. And it will be – er – interesting to see Andrew again. I liked him rather a lot.’

‘You manage to like most people, don’t you, Imogen? An endearing characteristic. Most of the fellows don’t like him at all; they say he sold out. But there, you were just on your way home, weren’t you? Ride that bike of yours safely, my dear. We can’t afford to lose you.’

Imogen left the college by the Chesterton Lane gate and pedalled home to Newnham. Her way was along the Backs, beautiful even now on a bleak day of late winter, but all her attention was needed to preserve her life in the heavy traffic. She entered the relative peace of Newnham Croft with relief. Her own house, on one of the streets that led off Grantchester Street, was a welcome refuge from a job that she loved but that could be demanding. It was just a week into the Lent term, the peak time for sporting injuries. Undergraduates were notably remiss in protecting their own persons. And there was always somebody needing relief from a minor ailment, or a shoulder to weep on. In addition, she’d allowed her off-duty hours to become a little too fully occupied with voluntary activities. Today she had to feed somebody’s cat, visit an old lady who was in good health but low spirits, and telephone friends to arrange a meeting of the Quilters’ Club. It was pleasant to get home and find that Fran, a research student at St Agatha’s and by now a close friend, was in the house and fixing herself a scratch lunch out of the fridge.

Fran cut a rough cheese sandwich and a large tomato in two, and passed half across to Imogen.

‘What’s the news from college?’ she inquired.

‘Fascinating, as a matter of fact. I have to help to entertain a tycoon, Sir Julius Farran. Know who he is?’

‘I’ve heard of him. Isn’t he supposed to be a bit of a crook?’

‘I wouldn’t know about that. He’s incredibly rich, and he’s a St Agatha’s man.’

‘And potential benefactors are always welcome?’

‘Come now, Fran,’ said Imogen sternly, ‘how could you harbour such unworthy thoughts?’ That particular unworthy thought had in fact occurred to her during her conversation with the Master. But it was not Sir Julius who was uppermost in her mind.

‘And would you believe it, Andrew Duncombe is coming over, too.’

Fran sat up, interested. ‘Andrew Duncombe! I went to his lectures at one time, as an undergraduate. We all thought he was brilliant. And ... have I got it wrong? Isn’t he the Andrew you used to talk about a lot? The one who was ... close to you?’

‘Yes, he was close to me,’ Imogen said. ‘Perhaps too close.’

‘But it ended when he left the college?’

‘How do you know there was any “it” about it? He was a friend.’

‘There are friends and friends,’ observed Fran sagely. ‘And there are “just good friends”. I’ve always supposed he was one of those. You were fond of him, weren’t you?’

Yes, I was fond of him, thought Imogen. And that was the right phrase for it. She’d been fond of Andrew; she hadn’t been in love with him. Yet he’d been her lover for more than a year.

It hadn’t been the tempestuous passion of her youth, the passion that had cost her such devastating agony, to say nothing of a medical career, when she had given all for love and been brutally abandoned. That passion had seared her, left her wretched for years, still made her wretched when she thought about it. She had known she couldn’t go through all that again, felt she would never again trust any man. Maybe, she’d felt then, she would be celibate for the rest of her life.

She’d taken the job at St Agatha’s. Then Andrew had arrived, a young lecturer of her own age, married but in process of divorce. Andrew had confided in her; people always did. His experiences had paralleled hers. For him, too, there had been a passionate and prolonged affair, but for him it had ended in marriage. And the marriage had been disastrous; a few months later his wife had contemptuously left him for a man who had lots of charisma but was, in Andrew’s opinion, intellectually null.

He and Imogen had comforted each other, and the comfort had led, before very long, to bed. It hadn’t been a passionate relationship, but it had been quite a satisfactory one. There was attraction enough to make it work on the physical plane. Andrew had turned out to be a deft and considerate lover. They hadn’t lived together and hadn’t seen any need to tell the world about themselves; if whispers got around the college or the neighbourhood, they didn’t get to Imogen’s ears. They had made a point of not being committed to each other; if they weren’t committed neither of them could be let down.

When, after a year, Andrew told Imogen he was joining the Farran Group and would be leaving Cambridge, he’d made it clear that this would end the affair; he’d offered a somewhat muted apology and she’d told him there was nothing to apologise for. After he went, she missed him more than she’d expected, but it was nothing like a replay of the earlier disaster. She had settled down to being on her own again and been tolerably content, though well aware that for a childless woman in her mid-thirties the clock was ticking. They sent each other Christmas cards.

‘I heard something about him a few weeks ago,’ she told Fran. ‘I was told that he had a glamorous girlfriend. Maybe he’s going to marry again.’

‘And you wish him happiness?’

‘Why not? He hasn’t done me any harm.’

After Fran had gone, she went on thinking about Andrew. So now he was rising rapidly in the Farran empire. Making lots of money, probably. And with a girlfriend who was no doubt beautiful and fashionable.

She’d heard it said that Andrew had sold his soul. Had he really? It would be interesting to see him again. And to meet the man who’d bought it.

Chapter 10

It wasn’t difficult to work out how Tuesday Market got its name. It was an ancient if undistinguished small town at the centre of a broad agricultural area, and the market in question had been held in its central square since the thirteenth century. Indeed, the standard local history, the work of an imaginative antiquarian, alleged that it had first received a charter to hold this market from King Stephen, himself a somewhat improbable monarch, though he undoubtedly existed.

Unfortunately the charter had been mislaid somewhere along the line, but the market was still in existence. The town came to life every Tuesday morning, and until lately had slept through the rest of the week. But Sir Julius Farran had seen development possibilities in it. It was a pleasant enough place to live in, and there was scope for a comfortably traditional retirement complex, attracting people who could trade profitably down from their expensive homes in the cities and enjoy rural peace and prosperity. This was what had taken the place of the long-established department store of Dacre and Son, established in 1854. To satisfy the planners, the complex had included half a dozen fancy shops and a recreation centre, and in a gesture to its origins the whole development was known as Dacres.

This was a hollow joke to Mr Robert Dacre, great-grandson of the firm’s founder. Among other omissions, he had failed to protect the use of his name. Moreover, a further coup by the Farran Group had made it possible for Mr Dacre’s own commodious Victorian house, built by his great-grandfather at a conveniently short distance from the business premises, to be surrounded by affordable housing, much despised by those who could afford better.

The present Mr Dacre was a melancholy widower, rich but with little to do. He had no sporting or cultural interests; he did not play bridge or enjoy travel. His life had been devoted to the welfare of his business and its employees. He had expected to continue running it after the takeover, with the added resources of a large company behind him. He had been devastated when, within months, it had been abruptly closed down.

It was in fact market day when Andrew and Imogen drove into Tuesday Market, but it was mid-afternoon and by now the traders were dismantling their stalls. Andrew had admitted to nervousness about the reception they would receive, but Robert Dacre, a balding man in late middle age with a vestigial fringe of reddish hair that reminded them of Derek, was polite though cautious.

‘Of course I remember you,’ he said to Andrew. ‘The brilliant young man who popped in and out of Julius’s office from time to time. I don’t blame you for what happened to Dacres. The whole affair was a hundred per cent Julius, and he never consulted anybody. However, it’s a surprise to get a visit from you. Could it possibly be that some of Julius’s misdeeds have been found out? My son would be delighted even now if they were. For myself, frankly, it’s too late. I was furious at first, but I had to come to terms with it. The damage is done, and it can’t be undone.’

‘Your son is Derek, isn’t he?’

‘He is. He’s taken it all very hard, poor lad. He’d supposed all through his teens that he’d be taking charge of Dacres. Couldn’t be bothered with exams or university, because he thought his future was all mapped out. I’m afraid I led him to think he’d be safe with the new owners. I should have known better, of course. It’s one of the things I blame myself for.’

‘Derek’s been expressing his views rather forcibly, hasn’t he?’ Andrew said.

‘Oh dear. You mean the business in the churchyard? I had a call from the Rector of Welbourne St Mary’s about that. I apologised humbly, of course, and I gave the boy a thorough ticking-off. I call him a boy, but the truth is, he’s over twenty and I can’t control him. He hasn’t been up to anything else, I hope.’

Andrew and Imogen had agreed that it wasn’t up to them to tax Robert Dacre with his son’s behaviour. They let the last remark pass.

Dacre went on, ‘So please tell me what brings you here. You haven’t by any chance been talking to young Janner, have you?’

Andrew looked puzzled.

Imogen said to him, ‘That’s the very articulate young don who was slagging off Julius the night of the incident at St Agatha’s.’

‘I remember now, only too well. Apart from that occasion I’ve never met him,’ Andrew said. ‘He did seem to be remark­ ably well informed.’

‘So he ought to be,’ said Dacre. A faint hint of satisfaction lightened the melancholy of his expression. ‘He got the information from me. But of course Julius was still alive and there was some point in exposing him. Now he’s gone, it doesn’t matter. At least, it doesn’t matter to me any more, though I’m afraid it does to poor Derek. Tell you the truth, he’s got obsessed, and it worries me a lot. I do all I can to keep him out of mischief. He’s a good boy at heart, you know, but headstrong. It’s a good job he hasn’t seen my dossier, or there’s no telling what he might do.’

‘Your dossier?’

‘Yes. That’s why I mentioned Carl Janner. I had a whole dossier of information on Julius, and he borrowed it for the dinner in Cambridge. I gather from Carl that he made good use of it and really got Julius on the run.’

‘I’m not sure I would put it like that,’ Andrew said. ‘But it did result in a disastrous evening.’

‘It could have been worse, in fact positively explosive. But I warned Janner not to use the really damning stuff. That could have blown Farran out of the water. But the downside risk was frightening. Julius was a crack shot with a libel writ, and most of what we knew couldn’t be proved. He might have ruined us with nothing achieved. Janner took my advice; I think he had a high regard for his own skin.’

‘Where’s the dossier now?’

‘Janner still has it. He asked if he could keep it for a while. I knew he was working on an anti-Farran project of his own – writing a book, I think – and I didn’t want to discourage him, so I told him he could do as he likes with it.’

Imogen said, ‘I think you told us Derek hasn’t seen it.’

‘No, he hasn’t. And I don’t want him to. He’s furious enough without that. It’s better if he doesn’t know it exists.’

‘I wonder if you’re right,’ Imogen said thoughtfully.

But Mr Dacre didn’t seem to be listening. ‘I just wish he’d calm down. And now, can I offer you a cup of tea? I’m afraid I don’t have any cake or biscuits or the things that people offer at teatime. These days I don’t entertain.’

Afterwards, in the car, Andrew said, ‘I’m surer than ever it was Derek who put up that notice at the cliff edge.’

‘We don’t absolutely know it was Derek,’ Imogen said, ‘and even if it was, I don’t think it’s up to us to punish his father for it. Poor Mr Dacre, he’s sad enough already.’

Andrew said, ‘I’ve made up my mind what I’m going to do next. I’m going to confront Max in his own office.’

‘Max won’t want to see you.’

‘He’ll have to see me. I shan’t go away until he does. But first of all tomorrow morning, of course, I have to see the Master again and talk about coming back to St Ag’s. The more I think about it, the more I’m sure that’s what I want to do. Maybe getting sacked by Max was a blessing in disguise.’

‘I wouldn’t count your chickens,’ Imogen said cautiously.

‘Well, if Sir William meant one half of what he said when he was trying to persuade me not to go, he’ll welcome me with open arms. Now, what about tonight? Where am I sleeping?’

‘I’m shocked that you even ask,’ said Imogen. ‘You’ll be in the spare room again. Close your eyes and think of Rowena.’

 

Andrew drove across from Newnham to St Agatha’s next morning. Imogen went with him, meaning to catch up on some chores and telephone Bridget to find out whether anything alarming had happened during her absence (it hadn’t) before her morning surgery.

Andrew was in high spirits; Imogen doubtful, wondering whether he would be back in her surgery crestfallen or whether – perhaps even worse – Sir William, who never liked to disappoint anybody, would have offered him misleading hopes. It was the first of these surmises that proved right.

‘Nothing doing,’ he told her an hour later, in a tone more of surprise than anger. Sir William had been cordially forgiving about his earlier desertion; had quite understood his feeling the need to move on and had realised that academic salaries were far too low for a young man of his brilliance. He was sure the Governing Body would be delighted to have Andrew back, but alas, the college was in the worst financial straits for many years and there was no hope whatever of an appointment being approved. Andrew had wondered about a university appointment as distinct from a college one, but the Master was just as discouraging. A Harvard economist of worldwide reputation had recently been persuaded to come over to Cambridge, in a rare triumph of counterflow, and had brought a team with him. There wouldn’t be any vacancy in the foreseeable future.

‘So I’m sorry, Andrew, but it doesn’t look as though we can offer you anything at the moment,’ Sir William had said. ‘But of course, things may improve. Peter Wetherby is working hard for us, and we’re very impressed by him. He’s working at present on a brilliant investment which he says may pull us round, and enable us to open our arms again. In the meantime, we’re having to take some rather stiff financial medicine. In fact, later today I have to receive a deputation from the junior common room. We’re having to cut off some financial support that we give to poorer undergraduates, and as you can imagine this causes great indignation – taking it out on the poor and so on. However, don’t give up hope. And in the meantime, you know you’ll be very welcome to dine at High Table from time to tim. . .