The Duke of York's Steps

by Henry Wade

Genres: Mystery; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

A wealthy banker, Sir Garth Fratten, dies suddenly from an aneurysm on the Duke of York's Steps. His doctor is satisfied that a mild shock such as being jostled would be enough to cause Sir Garth's death. It all seems so straightforward, and there is no inquest. But Fratten's daughter Inez is not satisfied. She places an advertisement in the London newspapers that comes to the attention of Scotland Yard, and Inspector John Poole is assigned to make enquiries. Poole's investigation leads him into a world of high finance where things are not as they seem; a sordid world in which rich young men make fools of themselves over chorus girls.

Release date: July 28, 2016

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 318

Sample

“A GLASS of the Dow for Mr Hessel, please, Rogers, and I’ll have brown sherry.”

The wine waiter retired to execute the order and Sir Garth Fratten turned to his guest.

“Too much vintage port last night, I’m afraid, Leo. Old Grendonian dinner. ‘Hair of the dog that bit you’ may be all right with champagne, but port—no.”

His companion laughed.

“I should have thought you were too old a Grendonian to fall into that trap,” he said. “Where was it? The Grandleigh? They generally give you pretty good stuff there. I hate
those functions myself—not that there are any Old Boy dinners of the school I went to.”

There was a trace of bitterness in Hessel’s voice, but his companion ignored it.

“I don’t like them myself,” he said. “I haven’t been to one for years, but this was a tercentenary affair and I rather had to go. The wine was all right; it was the
speeches that were the trouble—they kept at it till nearly eleven. I got mine over early—and shortly—but some of them took the opportunity to let off steam. Pretty indifferent
steam most of it was, too. One has to drink something—toasts and general boredom. I couldn’t drink the brandy—1812 on the bottle and 1912 inside it—the usual Napoleon ramp.
But the Cockburn was genuine stuff—’96. Must have got outside the best part of a bottle—not wise in these soft days. Have some coffee, old man? Shall we have it here? The
guests’ smoking-room is sure to be packed now, and it’s after two—we can smoke in here.”

The two men were sitting at a small corner table in the handsome dining-room of the City Constitutional Club, of which the elder. Sir Garth Fratten, was a member. Chairman of the well-known
“family” bank which bears his name, Sir Garth occupied an assured position in the esteem, not only of this exclusive club, but of the ‘City’ generally. Still well on the
right side of seventy, the banker was commonly regarded as being at the peak of a long and honourable financial career. He had kept his mind abreast of the rapidly changing conditions of post-war
finance, and this faculty, coupled with his great practical knowledge and experience, caused his opinion and his approval to be valued very highly, not only by individuals, but even at times by the
Treasury. He had been knighted for his services, financial and otherwise, to the country in the Great War, and it was thought not unlikely that his specialized knowledge might lead him to a seat in
the Upper House.

His companion, Leopold Hessel, was about eight years his junior, though his scanty hair was at least as grey as Fratten’s—probably because his path in life had been less smooth. His
skin, however, was clean and, apart from the eyes, unlined, and his figure slim. He had dark eyes and sensitive hands, but none of the more exaggerated features of his race, and the charm of his
appearance was confirmed by the fact of his close friendship with a man of Sir Garth Fratten’s discrimination. This friendship had been of untold value to Hessel in the War, when the position
of men of even remote German descent had been extremely difficult. Fratten, however, had insisted upon Hessel retaining his position upon the directorate of the bank and this action by so prominent
a citizen, being regarded as a certificate of Hessel’s patriotism, had saved him the worst of the ignominies that were the lot of many less fortunate than himself. None the less, the scar of
these harrowing years remained and was probably reflected in the conversation that was now taking place.

“I wish you’d let me put you up for this place, Leo,” Fratten was saying. “I hate having to treat you as a guest—you know what I mean—and take you into that
poky little smoking-room on the rare occasions when you consent to lunch with me.”

Hessel smiled rather bitterly and shook his head.

“It’s good of you, Fratten,” he said. “In many ways I’d like to belong here, but . . .” he paused, as if seeking how best to express a refusal that might
appear ungracious, “perhaps I haven’t the courage to risk a licking now,” he concluded.

Fratten’s gesture of denial was emphatic.

“You’re not still thinking of that damned war business, are you? That’s all forgotten long ago—not that it ever applied to you. Or is it Wendheim and Lemuels? They
weren’t blackballed because they were . . . because of their religion. It was simply that this club has always asked for other qualifications besides wealth and business success. That ass
Erdlingham didn’t realise it, or they’d got the whip hand of him or something—he’s in all their things—and he put them up and, of course, they just got
pilled—not the sort we want here. You are—you’d get in without the least doubt.”

Hessel’s hand lightly touched his companion’s sleeve. “You are a good friend, Fratten,” he said, “a good deal better than I deserve. Don’t you see that
that’s one reason why I don’t risk this—you know what your position would be if it didn’t come off. No, don’t go on. I’m more grateful than I can say, but I
shall not change my mind.”

Fratten sighed.

“All right, Leo,” he said. “I’m really sorry, but I respect your attitude. It’s more my loss than your’s, anyway. Come on—we must be off. I’ve got
a Hospital Board meeting at three, and I must look in at the bank first.”

The two men made their way out into the wide hall, with its handsome double staircase, recovered their overcoats (it was October) and hats from the pegs where they had hung them, and were soon
in the street.

As they turned into Cornhill, Fratten threw away the cigar that he had been smoking, and cleared his throat.

“I’ve got something in the way of a confession to make to you, Leo,” he said. “I ought to have made it before, but I’m not sure that I’m not rather ashamed of
myself. I told you that I’d been to an Old Grendonian dinner last night. Well I met a fellow there who was a great friend of mine at school, though I hadn’t seen him since. He was a
soldier, did damn well in the War, commanded a division in France towards the end and a district in India afterwards. I don’t think he’d ever lived in London till he retired a couple of
years ago—anyhow, we’d never met. When he left the army he didn’t settle down in the country to grow moss and grouse at the Government like most of them do. He . . . are you
listening, old chap?”

Hessel had been looking straight in front of him with an expression that suggested that his thoughts might be on some other and more important subject, but he emphatically repudiated the implied
charge of inattention.

“Yes, yes, of course, I am. Go on—interesting career. Who is he? What does he do?”

Sir Garth, as other and lesser men, liked to tell his story in his own way. He paid no attention to the questions.

“As I was saying, he didn’t settle down to a life of promenades and old ladies at Cheltenham; he set up as a bold bad company promoter—and with no mean success.”

“Who is he? What’s his name?” repeated Hessel.

“Lorne. Major-General Sir Hunter Lorne, K.C.B., K.C. this and K.C. that. He asked me to . . . .”

But his companion had stopped.

“Look here, Fratten,” he said. “What is this? What is the confession? I can’t hear you in this racket. Come down here.”

He took his companion’s arm and pulled him into an alleyway that led through towards Lombard Street. It was comparatively quiet after the roar of the traffic in Cornhill.

“What on earth is this story?” repeated Hessel, with a note of agitation in his voice.

“I’ll tell you if you’ll give me half a chance. He’s chairman of a finance company—the Victory Finance Company, I think he called it . . . He has asked me to join
his board. He thinks my name would be a help—I suppose it would. Apparently they’re thinking of extending their scope; they . . .”

“But you didn’t consent?” ejaculated Hessel sharply.

“I warned you it was a confession, Leo. I’d had, as I told you at the club just now, more port than was strictly wise. I wasn’t quite so—so guarded as I usually
am—we were very great friends at school. I was a fool, I suppose, but I promised him I’d look into the thing—he’s sending me the details to-night.”

Hessel’s usually calm face was flushed. He was evidently deeply moved by Sir Garth’s information.

“Good heavens!” he exclaimed. “You can’t do that. Your doctor . . . You told us—the board—only two or three meetings ago that your doctor had absolutely
ordered you to do less work! Your heart . . . you said your heart was unsound! You’ve gone off the board of the British Trading—I thought you were going off your Hospital Board, too.
Besides, this Victory Trust; what is it? You can’t—with your reputation—you can’t go on to the board of a tinpot company like that! It’s probably not sound. It’s
. . .”

“Ah, that’s another point,” interrupted Fratten. “If it’s not sound, of course, I can’t go into it. Apart from my own reputation it wouldn’t be fair to
the public; they might take my name—for what it’s worth—as a guarantee. That I shall go into very carefully before I consent. As to health, what you say is quite true. My
‘tragic aneurism’ or whatever it is old Spavage calls it, is rather serious. I don’t deny that I’m worried about it. It isn’t heart really, you know—I only call
it that because it sounds prettier. But after all, this Victory Finance Company ought not to mean much work. I gather that it’s my name and perhaps some general advice on the financial side
of the business that Lorne wants.”

Hessel had by this time calmed down and he now spoke quietly though none the less definitely.

“I think you are misleading yourself, Fratten. You tell me that this company contemplates extending its scope. I know you well enough to be certain that if you go on to this board and it
starts developing fresh fields, you will throw your whole energy into the work. You may deceive yourself about that, but not me. Now, apart from your own point of view, I want to put two others to
you—your family’s and the bank’s. If you break down, if you overstrain yourself and collapse—that’s what happens, you know—is that going to be pleasant for Inez
and Ryland?”

“It certainly wouldn’t spoil Ryland’s sleep,” answered Fratten bitterly. “I can’t imagine anything suiting him better.”

“Oh, come, Fratten; you’re unjust to the boy. But Inez—you know well enough that she adores you. I should say that you were the centre of her whole universe. Can’t you
think of her? Doesn’t she come before this school friend?—a friend who means so much to you that you haven’t seen him, and probably haven’t thought of him, for forty
years?”

The banker’s expression had softened at the mention of his daughter, but he made no comment. Hessel renewed his attack from a fresh direction.

“And the bank,” he said. “What about that? Thousands of people depend upon the success of Fratten’s Bank. All your shareholders—it’s been your
policy—our policy—for generations to distribute the shares widely and in small holdings—mostly to small people. Small tradesmen, single ladies, retired soldiers and sailors, your
own employees. Many of them have all their savings in Fratten’s Bank. You know well enough that the position of the private banks is anything but secure in these days—half a slip, and
the big five swallows them. We’re doing well now, we’re even prosperous—why?—because of you. Your knowledge, your experience, your flair—you are the bank, the
rest of us are dummies. I don’t plead for myself, but my own position, my financial and social position, is entirely dependent upon Fratten’s.”

Sir Garth shook his head impatiently.

“You exaggerate,” he said. “The Board is perfectly capable of running the bank without me—probably better. You yourself are worth in fact, though possibly not in the eyes
of the public, every bit as much to the welfare of the bank as I am. You may have less experience but you have a quicker, a more acute, financial brain than I ever had, and I’m past my
prime—I’m depreciating in value every day. No, no, Leo; you’ve overstated your case, and that’s fatal. I’ll take care, of course, but that appeal ad
misericordiam—weeping widows and trusting orphans—is all bunkum. Anyway, I must get along now—I can’t stand here arguing all day.”

Hessel’s expression was grim.

“You’ve definitely decided?” he asked.

“If it’s sound, yes. I’ve taken a leaf out of your book, Leo, about the club. I’m grateful to you for your consideration, for your advice, much of it very sound,
but—I shan’t change my mind.”

He moved off down the alley, and Hessel, after a moment’s hesitation, followed him in silence. They turned into Lombard Street, both evidently wrapped in deep and probably anxious
thought—so much so that Sir Garth, omitting for once the fixed habit of years, stepped into the roadway to cross the street without glancing over his shoulder at the traffic. As he did so, a
motor-cycle combination swooped from behind a van straight at him. With a violent start, Fratten awoke to his danger and stepped back on to the pavement, untouched, while the cyclist, with a glance
to see that all was well, spluttered on his way.

But though there had been no collision, all was very far from being well. The banker took two or three shaky steps forward and then tottered to the inner side of the pavement and leant, gasping,
against the wall. His face was very pale, and he pressed his hand against his chest.

A crowd had gathered at the first sight of the unusual and now pressed closely round the sick man, adding its heedless quota to his distress. Hessel, who had come quickly to his
companion’s side, did his best to drive off the sensation-vultures, but it was not till a majestic City policeman appeared that their victim was given a chance to breathe in comfort. After
loosening his collar, the constable and Hessel guided Fratten into the office outside which the mishap had occurred. Quickly recovering himself and declining the manager’s offer to send for
some brandy, Sir Garth brushed aside the constable’s desire to trace the motor-cyclist.

“No, no. No need to make a fuss,” he said. “It was as much my fault as his, and anyway your people have got more important work to do than that. I’m quite all right now;
it would have been nothing if I hadn’t happened to have a dicky heart. I’d like a taxi, though. I shan’t come to the bank now, Leo; it s getting late. Ask Ruslett to send me round
the papers about that Hungarian issue to my house. I shall be there by five.”

“But you’re going straight home, aren’t you?” exclaimed Hessel.

“No, I told you I’d got a Hospital Board this afternoon. It’s nearly three now.”

“But, good heavens, man, are you out of your wits to-day? You’ve had a severe shock. You must get straight to bed and send for your doctor.”

“Rubbish! I’m quite all right now. I must go to this Board meeting—I’m in the chair and I’ve got to report on an amalgamation scheme. Besides, if I’m ill,
what better place to go to than a hospital? They’ve even got a mortuary, I believe, if the worst comes to the worst!”

Fratten laughed at his companion’s harassed expression and took his arm.

“Now, then, lead me out to the ambulance, old man,” he said.

Hessel watched his friend drive off in the taxi, and then turned and walked slowly off towards the bank, an anxious and very thoughtful expression on his face.

The police constable established himself against a convenient wall, took out his notebook and wetted his pencil.

“At 2.45 p.m., I . . .”

AT half-past four on the same afternoon, Inez Fratten walked into the morning room of her father’s big house in Queen Anne’s Gate, pulled
off her soft hat and threw it on to a chair, shook her hair loose, and picked up a telephone.

“Wilton 0550 . . . Is that 27, Gr . . . Oh, Jill! Inez speaking. Jill, darling, come and dine with us to-night and play bridge. Ryland’s dining in, as he calls it, for once in a blue
moon. I’m so anxious that one of his dangerous tastes should have the best and brightest home influence to distract him from—etcetera, etcetera—you know—sweet young English
girlhood and all the rest of it—you’re just exactly it—with a small ‘i.’ Yes, Golpin, I’ll have it in here. It’s all right, darling, I’m talking
about tea. I say, did you see Billie last night? She was with that awful Hicking man again—you know, the pineapple planter or whatever it is they make fortunes out of in Borneo or New Guinea
or somewhere. Billie’s simply fascinated with him because he’s got a ruby tooth—she follows him about everywhere and says awful things to make him laugh—he thinks he’s
made a frightful conquest. They were at the Pink Lizard last night, but you may have left. Who was that exquisite young thing you’d got in tow? No—really—I thought he was a pet.
Well, you’re coming, aren’t you? If you want a cocktail you must have it at home because father’s joined an anti-cocktail league or made a corner in Marsala or something. So long,
my Jill. Eight o’clock—don’t be late, because we won’t wait. Poitry.”

Inez put down the telephone and walked across to the fireplace. There was a small Chippendale mirror above it and she was just tall enough to see into it while she ran her fingers through the
soft waves of her brown hair—peculiarly golden-brown, lighter than auburn, but in no sense red. A shade darker were the low, straight eyebrows which crowned a pair of the coolest, clearest
grey eyes in the world—eyes that looked at you so steadily and calmly that you felt instinctively “lying is going to be an uncomfortable job here.” For classic loveliness her chin
was perhaps a thought too firm, her lips not quite full enough, but when she smiled there was a bewitching droop at the corners of her mouth that relieved it of any suspicion of hardness.
Altogether it was a face that not only caught your eye but took your heart and gave it a little shake each time you looked at it.

“Mr Ryland told you he’d be in to dinner, didn’t he, Golpin?”

The pale, smooth-faced butler, who was making mysterious passes over a tea-table with a pair of overfed hands, indicated in a gentle falsetto that such was indeed the case.

“We shall be four altogether; Miss Jerrand is coming. Oh, I say, take that ghastly green cake away and bring some honey and a loaf of brown bread, etc. I’m hungry. And you’d
better tell Mr Mangane that tea’s ready—not that he’s likely to want any.”

But in this respect Inez appeared to be wrong. She had hardly helped herself to butter, honey and a thick slice of brown bread, when the door opened and her father’s secretary walked into
the room. Lawrence Mangane had only taken up the post a month or so ago and as he did not as a rule dine with the family—Sir Garth liked to be really alone when he was not
entertaining—Inez had seen very little of him. He seemed presentable enough, she thought, as he walked quietly across the room and dropped into a chair beside her. He was rather tall and
dark, with a thin black moustache that followed the line of his upper lip in the modern heroic manner.

“Afternoon, Mr Mangane. Strong, weak, sugar, milk. I thought you didn’t like tea.”

“I don’t. Weak, sugar, no milk, please.”

Inez’s hand, waving the Queen Anne teapot, paused above a pale green cup.

“If you don’t like it, why on earth do you . . . ?”

Mangane smiled.

“Because I want some tea,” he said.

Inez looked at him for a moment, the shadow of a frown flickering across her face. Then, with a shrug:

“Distinction’s a bit too subtle for me. Anyhow, help yourself. Is father being kind to you?”

“He’s being wonderfully patient. It must be infernally trying to a busy man to have to explain what he’s talking about.”

“But you’ve had financial training, haven’t you? Father said you’d been with Sir John Kinnick. I thought you probably knew all about it.”

“I thought so, too; it’s been a thoroughly healthy and humiliating experience for me to realise that I don’t. Your father’s in a class by himself, so far as my experience
has taken me up to now. He sees things from an entirely different point of view—a sort of financial fourth dimension.”

Appreciation of her father, if Mangane had known it—and perhaps he did at least guess—was the surest way to win Inez’s own approval. It was quite evident that she regarded her
father with anything but the tolerant contempt which many of her contemporaries thought it amusing to adopt towards their parents. Sir Garth was a man whom it was possible, and even reasonable, to
admire, even if he did happen to be one’s own father. Playing upon this easy string Mangane had no difficulty in justifying his self-sacrifice in the matter of tea-drinking. He was even
contemplating another cup when the spell was broken by the abrupt appearance of a third player. The door into the hall opened suddenly and a young man slipped into the room, closing the door behind
him with exaggerated silence.

“Ry!” exclaimed Inez. “What on earth are you trying to do?”

Ryland tip-toed across the room with long strides and whispered hoarsely in his sister’s ear.

“Is the Old Gentleman, your father, to house, maiden?”

“No, you idiot; of course he isn’t at this time of night. He does some work.”

“Cruel fair. But, oh Lord, I breathe again. A bowl of milk or I die.”

Ryland slid into the big chair beside his sister and with one arm squeezed her to him. Mangane, watching in some amazement, had difficulty in repressing a stab of jealousy at sight of the flush
of pleasure on the girl’s face. Presumably, this must be Ryland Fratten, her half-brother; there was nothing to worry about.

“Ry, have you met Mr Mangane? This is my brother, Mr Mangane.”

“Steady, half-brother; give the devil his due.”

Mangane nodded in acknowledgment of the introduction, but Ryland struggled to his feet, walked round the tea-table, and held out his hand.

“I’m so glad you’ve come,” he said. “You’re obviously human. Dune was a machine—and I never found the right butter to put into it. I want all the human
beings I can get at headquarters.”

The charm of his smile, rather than the flippant words, melted the slight chill in the secretary’s manner and for a few minutes he remained talking to Inez, while Ryland sat on the sofa,
eating chocolate cake and muttering to himself.

“Mangane. Permangane. What play does that remind me of? Oh, I know—Potash and Perlmutter.”

Mangane laughed and rose to his feet.

“You’ve been studying Mr Pelman,” he said. “Well, I must go and earn my keep. Thank you so much, Miss. . .