The Missing Partners

by Henry Wade

Genres: Mystery; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

Cousins James and Charles Morden run a shipping company in Liverpool that is, in the wake of the Great War, struggling. It appears there have been financial irregularities, and then James Morden's body is washed up on a bank of the Mersey. Evidence points to Charles Morden, after burning a lot of papers, having fled to New York. It turns out there's an illicit side to the business - and that James Morden's wife, Lilith, is a major player. The strands of the plot seem past untangling, but the family solicitor, William Turnbull, grasps every thread and draws them all together . . .

Release date: July 28, 2016

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 240

Sample

THE clear light of a hunter moon, veiled and revealed by drifting clouds, struck fitfully down upon the huge forms of forest trees. A wide clearing in
the forest allowed the light to strike upon the stems which, massive in girth and arrow-straight, rushed up into the dark mass of downward-sweeping branches. Across the open space lay dense shadow,
black and impenetrable, only the barbed tops silhouetted against the sky identifying the presence of another bank of giant conifers.

In the clearing itself, just short of the mass of shadow, the light fell upon the figure of a horse, saddled and bridled, with reins trailing on the ground. The animal’s hanging head, its
widespread legs, every line of its body, revealed the fact that it had travelled fast and far. Except for the gently heaving flanks it was motionless, instinctive nature teaching the urgent need to
conserve every ounce of energy, to recreate the strength and vital force essential for the service of its master. Rest it needed, long and undisturbed. But it was not to be. Suddenly the
animal’s head was flung up, the ears pricked, the whole body galvanized into eager life. The next moment a man burst from the forest, half-carrying, half-dragging a young girl whose hatless
head and white face gleamed in the moonlight. Reaching the horse, the man stopped and turned to his companion. The light revealed a face of great beauty—short, straight nose; dark eyes; low,
straight brows; dark curling hair; the lips perhaps a trifle full, but bold and daring. For a second their lips met in a passionate kiss; then the man vaulted into the saddle, dragged the girl up
in front of him, and the noble animal, leaping forward under the pressure of his master’s heels, dashed at full gallop down the glade.

Not a moment too soon. Out into the clearing rushed two men in rough riding-kit, wild of aspect, fierce of eye. Seeing their quarry disappearing, they flung up clenched fists in an ecstasy of
execration, then emptied rifle and revolver vainly after the flying figures. The young man turned a laughing face towards them, waved a triumphant hand, and emplanted another passionate kiss upon
the fair nape of his companion’s neck . . .

“Oh,” gasped Miss Helen Mildmay. “Isn’t he wonderful! Oh, I think he’s too lovely!”

A grunt from the semi-darkness beside her was her only answer.

Ten minutes later, as twin curtains drew slowly across the two clasped figures silhouetted against the cloud-veiled moon, and the lights flickered up in the great cinema-palace, Miss Mildmay
withdrew the hand that she had just discovered to be reposing in that of a young man on her left.

“I never told you you might do that,” she said.

“I didn’t,” said the young man with a smile.

The girl frowned and her lips parted again, but, as if realizing the weakness of her case, she checked herself and half turned away from her companion. Her nature, however, was neither sullen
nor coy and she soon turned back again with a smile.

“Well, anyway, Tom,” she said, “he is ripping, isn’t he? He rides simply wonderfully and he’s awfully good-looking.”

“Beastly Dago,” growled Tom Fairbanks.

“Oh, shut up, Doug; you’re jealous. Just because nobody raves about your silly old stunts any longer you crab every decent-looking actor on the films.”

“Look here, Helen; if you call me ‘Doug’ again, I shall—I shall—oh, I don’t know what I shall do, but you know I hate it. But you’re right about my
being jealous—I can’t stick hearing you crack up these oily South American bounders that aren’t fit to look at you. I want you . . .”

“Tom, you’re rather a dear,” said Helen firmly, “but you mustn’t get sloppy. I’m not in love with you, but even if I was it wouldn’t make any difference
to my passionate adoration of young gods who can ride and dance and look like that. And if ever I do love you, you’ll be perfectly welcome to go Gish-gazing all over Liverpool.”

This rather intimate conversation was carried on in undertones during the interval that allowed of the projection of “Coming Events,” “Tea, Coffee, Chocolate,” and
“Soda Fountain” announcements upon the screen. Not that that very modern young woman, Helen Mildmay, would have minded much if it had been spoken into microphones destined to broadcast
it over the British Isles, but her companion was of a more retiring disposition—and welcomed, moreover, the excuse for putting his head rather closer than usual to the fair curls of
Helen.

“I don’t dance so badly,” he said, “and I dare say I could ride and fight pretty well if I had a chance.”

“Pooh,” said Helen, rather unkindly. “Pretty sight a little rate-collector’s clerk would look on a broncho.”

“Don’t be a little beast—and he’s not a rate-collector, he’s His Majesty’s Inspector of Taxes.”

“God save the King. Amen,” said Helen. “It’s easy enough to sit there and say how brave you’d be. I bet if I tested you you’d crumple up quick
enough.”

“I wouldn’t. I’d do anything for you. I’d—I’d give my life for you. I’d go to the other end of the world if you just said you wanted a flower from
there. I’d give my soul to have a chance of rescuing you from something.”

“Thanks awfully. So I’m to get into a hole just to give you a chance of pulling me out again. Well, you’re not likely to have to. Your little lot is cast in lovely Liverpool
for the rest of your days and there aren’t many rough-necks knocking about here for you to rescue me from. Oh, no, you’re quite safe, Sir Thomas; your knightly prowess will be put to no
test by this damsel.”

“Don’t be so jolly sure about that,” said Tom, with some warmth. “There are plenty of bad lots about Liverpool and not so far from your precious shipping crowd,
either.”

“What . . . ?”

“’Ush!” said a voice behind them. “It’s ’im.”

They looked towards the screen. A black animal of some kind, with a frown on its face, was pacing up and down on its hind legs beside a perambulator, from which protruded a large baby’s
bottle.

“Ow, isn’t ’e lovely! Ow, look at Felix, do, dearie,” said the voice.

An hour or so later, when the two emerged from the great Palace Cinema into the chill of the March night, Helen returned to the point in their conversation at which the arrival of the immortal
Felix had interrupted her.

“What were you getting at about there being bad lots in ‘my shipping crowd’—you surely don’t mean in Morden and Morden, do you?”

Tom Fairbanks was silent for a minute. He had said rather more than he meant to, or at any rate than he ought, and he was wondering whether to gloss it over or to follow up the awkward subject
now that it was broached. He was influenced in the decision he took by two facts; in the first place, Helen Mildmay was not the girl to be easily put off once her curiosity had been aroused; in the
second, here was an opportunity to get information that he really wanted. For Helen was secretary to the very man to whom he was referring. Still, it was thin ice and he must skate warily.

“Oh, well,” he said, “‘bad lot’ is putting it rather strongly, perhaps, but there’s something jolly fishy about your Mr. James Morden.”

“What on earth are you getting at?”

“Well, don’t take it down in writing and use it in evidence against me, but I think he’s falsifying his income tax returns.”

Tom might have added that his chief, the Inspector of Taxes, thought the same, but he was wise enough not to say so.

“How do you mean, ‘falsifying his income tax returns’?”

“Why, making out that his income is different—less—than what it really is. Of course, it’s a bit difficult to judge how much a chap’s really got, but with practice
one can make a fairly close shot at it. Now, your Mr. James has been returning a pretty modest income for the last four or five years—going down every year it’s been—but he
doesn’t seem to dock his home comforts much—in fact, one would say that he was jolly well off. He’s got that house out at Knowsley—ten or a dozen bedrooms, I should think,
and five or six servants. His wife’s turned out about as well as anyone in Liverpool—no shortage there. He’s got a big Armstrong and she drives herself about in a pretty
comfortable little two-seater coupé and all the rest of it. Then he still runs his long dogs—got one entered for the Cup this year, they tell me—and I fancy he plays pretty high
at the Club. And one doesn’t know what other little amusements he may have—bit of a roving eye, I should say myself, but I don’t know. Anyway, unless he’s living on capital,
which isn’t likely with a hard-headed Lancashire business man of his age—what is he, forty-five, forty-seven?”

“About that, I should think,” said Helen, who had been listening quietly.

“Forty-five, say. It isn’t likely a man like him would live on capital, unless there was some jolly good reason for it—knew he was going to die young, or something like
that—and if he isn’t living on capital, I should say that his real income was at least twice what he says it is. Of course, I mustn’t say what the figures are, that’s
confidential . . .”

“Oh, that’s confidential, is it?” asked Helen with an irony that appeared to be lost on Mr. Fairbanks.

“Yes, I can’t quote figures, but broadly that’s the position as I see it. There’s something funny somewhere, or I’m a Dutchman.”

“But how can he give a false return—your tax collector man gets the firm’s accounts, doesn’t he?”

“Oh, yes, we get the accounts. And as far as they go we can check them. But that’s not quite the same thing as the private accounts of the partners—Mr. James and Mr. Charles
Morden. Of course, we see what they get out of the business, and, of course, everybody knows that the business has been going down since the War—or rather since the ’21 boom—but
though that’s straightforward enough, there’s no proof that one or both of them isn’t getting income from somewhere else, which he’s concealing. He may have come in for
money that we haven’t heard about; he may have got some side line—some other business—though that would be pretty difficult to conceal—he may be getting paid for
something—he might even be blackmailing somebody. There are lots of different ways he might be getting money and if he doesn’t choose to reveal them it’s jolly difficult for us to
catch him out.”

“But you could find out from his banking account how much he’s got.”

“I dare say we could, but they wouldn’t tell us. We couldn’t get access to the bank’s books without a warrant or an order of the court, and we could only get that if we
had definite proof of fraud. And then it wouldn’t be easy.”

There was silence for a time as the two walked on through the emptying streets. Both were evidently thinking over the uncomfortable subject that Tom Fairbanks had raised. Helen was the first to
break the silence, and her voice was rather cold.

“Are you by any chance suggesting that the business is fraudulent—that we cook our accounts, or anything of that kind?”

“No, no,” declared Tom hastily. “Of course, I’m not—not for a minute. I’m only talking about one of the partners. By the way, who does make up the
firm’s accounts—does your father?”

“Yes, father does them now. There used to be an accountant—Mr. Vaseley—but since things have gone so badly they’ve had to cut down the staff a good deal, so now father
does the accounts as well as being manager—or rather, he’s responsible for them—he’s got a junior clerk who does most of the actual work of keeping the accounts.”

“I see,” said Tom. “Well, anyhow, he’d know quick enough if there was anything wrong. And I don’t see quite how anything could be wrong to that extent—your
auditors would find it out. No, it’s some private game of James Morden’s. Of course, his cousin—or whatever he is—may be in it, too, though he lives quietly enough.
Uninteresting sort of chap, isn’t he—never seems to go anywhere or do anything? ‘Still waters run deep,’ though—he may be in it up to the neck for all I know. What
d’you think, Helen? Is Charles Morden a straight sort of chap or is he doing the dirty on us, too?”

If Tom Fairbanks had seen his companion’s face during his last remarks he would have been better prepared to meet the tornado that suddenly burst upon his guileless head.

“Look here, Mr. Peeping Tom or Nosey Parker, or whatever you think you are,” cried Helen Mildmay, “if you think you’re going to pump me about my employers you’re
damn well mistaken. Is that why you’ve been taking me out to cinemas—to try and worm things out of me for your nasty, spying, sneaking tax-collector? Oh, how odious of you! I’d
rather die than go to a show with you again. I wish to goodness I’d never seen you!”

And a very bewildered young man suddenly found himself standing alone in a nearly empty street, watching the rapidly retreating form of his late companion. But Tom Fairbanks, though a young ass
in many ways, was not fool enough to let the girl get away from him in her present mood without at least an attempt to put himself right in her eyes. In any case, it was his job to see her safely
home—the streets of Liverpool were no place for a pretty girl to be alone in at nearly midnight. Besides, in her anxiety to retreat effectively from him, she was going in exactly the opposite
direction to her home. In a few seconds Tom was by her side and was begging her, with a very wise humility, to forgive him.

“I didn’t mean to pump you, Helen, honestly I didn’t,” he said humbly. “I quite see that it might look like that, and it was rotten of me to ask you questions about
your people. I thought at first that you were interested and I suppose I went too far or something. Please forgive me, Helen dear; I am most awfully sorry.”

It is difficult to resist a really humble and generous apology, and Helen herself was a generous and even-tempered girl. She was already rather ashamed of her outburst and was prepared to meet
Tom half way. But she was woman enough to make the most of the advantage that Tom’s attitude gave her.

“All right, old chap,” she said. “I’ll forgive you and I’m sorry if I said anything a bit too strong myself, but if we’re to be friends you must drop your
‘shop’ when you’re with me,” and she held out a forgiving hand. Tom seized it, more hopelessly and abjectly her slave than ever.

“Helen, you’re a darling. No, you really are. It’s simply ripping of you to forgive me so generously. Helen, I do l . . .”

“That’ll do, young fellow,” said Helen crisply, “forgiving you doesn’t mean falling in love with you, you know. Look here it’s getting jolly late and where on
earth have we wandered to?”

Helen Mildmay and her father lived in a small semidetached villa on the outskirts of Liverpool, beyond Wavertree. It was a long tram ride from the cinema, but Helen and Tom usually walked the
first mile or so on these occasions to clear their lungs. To-night, in the course of their argument, they had wandered rather too far north and in order to recover their direction they had to
strike south and cross Prescot Street, one of the main traffic routes from the city to the east. At this late hour—it was about half past eleven—the street was practically empty, but as
they crossed it, a small two-seater came rapidly along from the centre of the city. As it passed them they looked idly at its single occupant and then both gave a gasp of surprise.

“Well, I’m dashed,” said Tom. “Isn’t that an odd coincidence! Where on earth is Mr. Charles Morden going to at this time of night?”

“No business of ours, anyway,” said Helen rather curtly, and Tom, having been once bitten, held his peace. They finished their walk in silence, but the late hour, the solitude, the
dim starlight, his companion’s late generous forgiveness of himself, or a combination of all four (and the thirty-first of March was very nearly spring time) were too much for young
Fairbanks’ romantic feelings.

As they parted at the low garden gate of “Rose Lawn” he gently possessed himself of Helen’s hand.

“Darling Helen,” he said. “I do love you so. Don’t you think you could love me a little bit?”

For a moment he thought—poor foolish optimist—that she was pondering over her reply to this momentous question. Then he realized that, though her hand remained in his, she was not
listening to him—she was, in fact, thinking of something else—and thinking with a look in her eyes, soft and yet anxious, which vaguely disturbed him. Suddenly a burst of light seemed
to flood his soul.

“Helen,” he cried, “you’re not—I believe you’re in love with Charles Morden!”

“Oh,” cried Helen, coming very abruptly to her senses. “How dare you say such a thing! Oh, I hate you, I hate you!” She stamped her foot, slammed the gate and ran down
the short path to the front door. But as she hurriedly pushed the key into the Yale lock there was a sparkle in her eyes that would, had he seen it, have both puzzled and disturbed poor Tom. Was it
caused by tears or by laughter? Did it bode well for him, or ill?

THE firm of Morden and Morden, by which both Helen Mildmay and her father were employed, was one of the last remaining family ship-owning businesses
left in England. Started by two enterprising young brothers, Charles and John Morden, in the early ’fifties at a time when, as a result of the industrial revolution, the carrying trade of
Britain was on a rapid up-grade, it had had, until the end of the Great War, a modest but increasingly prosperous career. Beginning at first with two small brigs which plied between Liverpool,
Bordeaux, and Lisbon, the brothers had rapidly developed their business, first extending their reach to the Canary Islands and then casting across the Atlantic to the West Indies and the southern
states of the American Republic. Being naturally enterprising, they had been among the first to discard wind for steam, and being also adventurous, they had taken advantage of the Civil War to
double their income by running cargoes of precious gun-powder and boots to the hard-pressed Confederates.

Engrossed in the toil and excitement of their business, neither had thought of matrimony until fairly late in life, when increasing prosperity suggested to them the advisability of heirs and
successors. John, the younger, had been the first to marry and had achieved two children, a girl born in 1875 and a boy, James, born in 1881. Charles, the more masterful and more particular of the
two, delayed his choice of a wife until the arrival of his brother’s son spurred him to take action. He thereupon married the daughter of a Non-conformist minister, who, early in 1882,
presented him with an heir, but, neither mother nor son surviving the ordeal, Charles found himself a still childless widower. For a while he buried himself in work, but a slight stroke warned him
that his time was limited. In something like a panic he cast about him for a new consort (the word was still fashionable), but he was now an obstinate and self-willed old man and he discovered to
his intense surprise and annoyance that no woman whom he considered worthy of himself would look at him. Realizing as a result of a second stroke that it was now too late to provide himself with a
son of his own, he adopted as his heir a young nephew of his late wife, and this youngster, possessing already the name of Charles, became by Royal Licence Charles Morden Junr. and, in 1895, by
reason of a third stroke, plain Charles Morden.

John Morden survived until 1906 and on his death his son James, then aged twenty-five, came into sole control of the business, his cousin and prospective partner, Charles, being at that time a
sixteen-years-old schoolboy. Although, under the blessings of Free Trade, the country’s carrying trade was still increasingly prosperous, James soon found that the competition of the great
shipping companies was pressing the small private concerns very hard, and he and Charles, who had joined him in 1910, were seriously considering the advisability of forming the business into a
company, when the outbreak of the Great War completely revolutionized the prospects of the firm. Taken over by the Government at an annual rental nearly equal to its total value, the Morden fleet
served its country for four years and, losing only two vessels, was returned to the firm, with full compensation, at the beginning of 1919. Replacing the lost ships with two cheaply-bought German
captives, Morden and Morden faced the dawning era of peace and prosperity with renewed confidence.

It is true that Charles, whose character was naturally more closely allied to that of his grandparent, the Moderate Baptist, than to that of his adopted father, councilled caution and
retrenchment, but James, with the blood of John and old Charles in his veins, would not listen to talk of company-promoting and the boom of 1920 pouring fresh gold into his pockets, seemed to prove
him right. Then came the slump. An impoverished world, wrung by jealousness and fears, its currencies in hopeless confusion, could not trade. A glut of ships, as a result of prodigious
war-buil. . .