The Plumley Inheritance

A Ludovic Travers Mystery

Christopher Bush

• Publisher: Dean Street Press
• Year: 2017
• eBook ISBN: 9781911579861
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Crime & Mystery Literature
• Index: Literature

“Have you heard the news, sir?” the waiter said.

“I’m afraid I haven’t. What is it?”

“Plumley’s dead, sir. Henry Plumley. We just got the news over the ’phone. Suicide they say it was. Anything else you want, sir?”

Out-of-print for over nine decades and one of the rarest classic crime novels from the Golden Age of detective fiction, The Plumley Inheritance, first of the Ludovic Travers mysteries, is now available in a new edition by Dean Street Press.

When the eccentric magnate Henry Plumley shockingly collapses and dies, a great adventure begins for Ludovic Travers, the dead man’s secretary, and his comrade Geoffrey Wrentham – a romp with not only mystery and mischief in the offing but murder too.

The Plumley Inheritance was originally published in 1926. This new edition features an introduction by crime fiction historian Curtis Evans.

CHAPTER I

The Curtain Rises

GEOFFREY WRENTHAM yawned sleepily and stretched his long legs, then, eyes opening to the sun of a July evening, started up quickly. Twenty past six the clock said. He checked it by his watch; twenty past six it was. That left exactly a quarter of an hour to get to Liverpool Street. He scanned himself hastily in the glass, put on his cap and buckled on his belt. Fortunately the rest of his things were lying ready in the hotel lobby.

In three minutes he was in a taxi and on his way. The driver, having been told that haste was urgent, was already taking risks. Like a cyclist at a gymkhana he twisted here and there; purred impatiently behind a slowly moving vehicle as if in ambush and then darted again through the narrowest gaps. Then came a stop, half-way through the Strand—the cross traffic of Kingsway and Waterloo. He realised that impatience would do no good; but why on earth had he gone to sleep? It couldn’t have been much after four when that cup of tea came up and he must have dozed off at once in the lounge chair in his room. A devilish expensive doze that! They were off again. He swayed to the forward lurch of the car. They might do it with any luck even now.

At thirty the blood is hardly to be stirred by thoughts of home. Most of the emotion that was in him had gone to the pleasant fields of Kent on yesterday’s journey from Dover. Then there had been the taking of his draft for demobilisation far out of London, and the march through English lanes and by cottage gardens. Not that it was other than good to be home again. Three years in Palestine and Egypt are not likely to make a man wholly unresponsive to those intangible stirrings of shadowed grass, the fragrance of old flowers, and all the pageantry of the English year. It was only that in the hours he had already spent in England the first fine flush of the return had partially spent itself, and in departing had left the deep longing for one small village rather than the feeling that all was wonderful and desirous. So it was that the thought of his home and his father was different. He must buy that billiard-table and get it sent down. The village experts would probably play the deuce with it and Emma would have to be conciliated with regard to keeping it in order. Still, why worry? Who would meet him at the station? Wallace was back at the vicarage, so the last letter had said, and he could almost see the gardener and the old green-lined wagonette. His father would be sure to meet him too. And how green the paddock would be! And the bees would be busy in the lime trees.

Another stop! This time the Bank traffic. Only four minutes to go. They must have come in on the tail of the halt, for again the taxi moved on; crawling, darting, and then again crawling. Before them was a monstrous dray. “They oughtn’t to allow those chaps on the road at this time of day,” thought Wrentham angrily. Then at last the turn, down the slope, and number ten platform, and as he got out of the door a whistle blew shrill and urgent and the long train moved out.

And here, by rights, I should pause and, as the controller of dramatic irony, tell you of what tremendous trifles dire ills are born. I should wag at you a portentous forefinger and say with hushed impressiveness, “Why should a dray have been at that special spot at that particular time?” And the answer would be that but for that fortunate chance we should never have heard of the artist who painted the invisible, of the policeman who ran, of the divers uses of cement, and of the vicar who preached a pertinent sermon. That I do not wag at you this finger is because I have already done so.

There was no extraordinary perturbation visible on his face as he returned to the taxi. They drove round to the entrance of the Liverpool Street hotel where a room was soon found. That would be handier, thought Wrentham, than going all the way back to the Strand. As he paid off the driver a voice hailed him and he turned to confront Colonel Travers. The voices came together. “Hallo, Colonel!” “Hallo, Geoffrey!”

“What are you doing here?” The Colonel now got in ahead on the conversational mix-up. Wrentham related his misadventures. Jolly lucky running into the Colonel like that. He might get some news about Ludo. Why not ask him to eat a mouthful and then do a show? The Colonel had, however, to refuse.

“Not for me, young feller! Very good of you, but I absolutely promised to be in to-night. Why not come out with me to Highbury?”

“That’s very nice of you, Colonel,” said Wrentham, “but the fact is I had a dreadfully late night and must turn in early. Got to catch the seven-thirty in the morning. How’s Ludo coming along these days?”

“Capital! Capital!” replied the other. “You in a hurry, my boy?”

Wrentham was not, and they moved along together towards the Moorgate Street Tube, talking of this and that, of meetings and familiar faces. Then, as they turned in by London Wall, a well-dressed man offered them a small printed bill. Travers waved his aside. Wrentham, less adroit, received his and was about to crumple it up to throw away, when his eye caught a name—HENRY PLUMLEY. He glanced rapidly through the notice.

“Rather an extraordinary coincidence that, Colonel,” he remarked. “The first day I am in London after three years a stranger hands me a chit on which is the name of my neighbour.”

The Colonel adjusted an eyeglass and scanned the bill.

“I expect you haven’t heard anything of this movement,” he said, “unless you read about it out there.”

“What movement is that, sir?” asked Wrentham.

The Colonel pointed out the heading. “These people are connected with a society calling itself the Social League. I don’t know exactly who they are, but there seem some very decent people among them. As you’ll soon discover for yourself, my boy, there’s a great deal of unrest about which started after the Armistice; demobilisation, inability to revert to male labour, and all that; so these fellers—I believe some are actually members of the Government—are going on the stump generally and holding meetings in big industrial centres. Let me see. Where’s Plumley speaking?” The Colonel screwed in his glass and again consulted the bill. “Oh! the People’s Hall, Aldgate.”

“Do you know Plumley at all well, sir?” asked Wrentham.

“As well as most, between you and me,” was the reply, a trifle angrily the other thought. “As a matter of fact, as you doubtless know, Ludo has been for the last eight months one of his secretaries.”

Wrentham was certainly interested, for Ludo and he had been almost like brothers. True, their ways, since Halstead and Cambridge, had lain apart, and the war was a strange divider of interests. At the same time he was very surprised. The Colonel, however, went on.

“Yes, after he was invalided home the War Office found him a job at the Publicity Department. You knew Plumley had been in charge of a branch of that during the war?”

“I think I did hear something about it.”

“Ludo knew there was not much point in hanging on, and so, when Plumley made him an offer—a dashed good offer too. He took it. Now he wishes to God he hadn’t.”

Wrentham hardly knew what to say. He was intrigued; more so than he cared to show. The other went on, this time his voice more lowered and confidential. “If one believes all that darn fool Ludo hints at, the fellow is going mad. All I can say is, ‘Thank God I’ve no interest in City Corporations, Ltd.’”

While Wrentham was grasping this, the Colonel was making his excuses, and for a rapidly crowding lift at the same time. “Well, good-bye Geoffrey. Don’t forget to come and see us when you return to Town. Remember me to the vicar,” and hardly heeding the other’s farewells he was gone.

It was inwardly, if not outwardly, a vastly different Wrentham who called, some ten minutes later, for a long whisky-and-soda in the lounge of the Great Eastern Hotel. Boys have a natural genius for the bestowal of nicknames, and those who gave him his title of “Rouster” were not the most incompetent at the job. It was the peculiarity of the man never to appear about to do anything; never to be concerned about preliminaries, but to face the event and leap into it. You may remember that ’Varsity match of his—he missed his Blue in his first year and a shoulder, crocked at soccer, kept him out of the next. Cambridge wanted eighty-three to win, with two bowlers, one of them Wrentham, to bat. His first ball he lammed for four; the next mid-off partially stopped, but they managed to get three for it. His second ball from Stonner—the great P.A.—scattered the ring at square-leg. When he was out, stumped some five feet from his crease, Cambridge had lost by four, and his total was seventy-one. “Why didn’t he sit tight for the other five?” you may say. I do not know. There are the facts; for you is the analysis. And so with this other picture, if you will abide the digression. Sergeant Miller of C Company used him at times to impress new-comers to the Alexandria mess; not, I think, to shine in reflected glory. It appears, at least according to the sergeant, that one night in 1917, one sergeant and one captain found themselves about three hundred yards from the line by the Wadi Ghuzzeh, “Crawlin’ on our bellies like a couple of bleedin’ scorpines.” They lay under a bank in the scant shade of a mass of distorted cactus. Here, perhaps, it would be as well to let the sergeant continue; his style, though being highly picturesque, having at least the merit of being direct.

“So the Captain he whispers to me, ‘We’ll stop here a bit, sergeant,’ he says, ‘and see if anything rolls up.’ We’d been layin’ there about a quarter of a hour when he sits up and cocks his ear. I look round his back and see something on the move like a couple of pi-dogs or them goats. He presses his left hand into the small of my back and there he sits like a blinkin’ idol. Whatever it was, they must have thought he was somethin’. They come straight over to us, and who do you think it was? A couple of Johnnies! I could see their old dirty jackets and the round caps, and all the time he kep’ on pushin’ into my ribs. You talk about havin’ the perishin’ wind up! There he sat, and them two Johnnies must have thought he was some kind of ruddy animal”—it seems that the sergeant had never heard of Caliban and his bedfellow—“and they come right up and that’s all I see. He must have given one a swipe over the jaw and the other a lift on the snout, because, when I got up, there was them two layin’ flat and him whisperin’ to me to drag one along. Well, we lugged them two Johnnies by the collar on the sand for a couple of mile I should think, until we got to the bend of the Wadi, and then, wot in ’ell do you think he done? ‘Miller,’ he says, ‘I’m damned if I’m goin’ to lug these fat swine any further. Nip off back and fetch a couple of orderlies.’ And if one of them Johnnies hadn’t started tryin’ to get up, I’m damned if he wouldn’t have made me done it.”

But as Wrentham sat over his long drink it appeared to him with no little emphasis that something had rolled up. What did the Colonel mean about City Corporations? And what was that about Ludo hinting that Plumley was going mad? He hadn’t looked much like going mad when he saw him at Hainton; but there, that was three years ago. He had never liked the man. Just a bit too plausible. He had no use for those financier fellows, in any case. Still, why worry? A brain-wave struck him. Why not go round to Bloomsbury Square in the morning and try to get hold of godfather Hallett? That was it—he’d telegraph to Hainton to meet the afternoon instead of the lunch train.

Why not try to get hold of old Ludo in the morning too? No, dash it all! he couldn’t do that. Getting a chap to tell tales out of the office or whatever they called it. After all, it was probably a mare’s nest. And another thought set that off—the very definite fact that ten thousand pounds is a devil of a lot of money, especially when it happens to be all you have. But what a fool he’d look if there was nothing in it. Heaven knows the war had produced enough tall yarns and doubtless the peace would not be left far behind. Perhaps there was no need to see his godfather. And if he did see him, how could he approach the subject without betraying the source of his information?

But during dinner his uneasiness persisted. It was not as if he had remembered something which he would fain forget, but rather as if he had forgotten something which he could not remember, so present at the back of his mind was the cloud of the evening’s happenings. And while he was waiting in the lounge for his coffee he faced the problem and determined to forget it. And then, again, as he groped in his pocket for his pipe he felt the rustle of paper and pulled out the handbill!

He read it again. SOCIAL LEAGUE—PEOPLE’S HALL—ALDGATE. In the chair LORD CHARLES NEVVIN. He remembered Nevvin. Oh, yes! at the last shoot in 1913. He had been one of the house-party at the Hall. Thundering good billiard player Nevvin! Speakers—HENRY PLUMLEY, ESQ., MONTAGUE HEARST, ESQ. Hearst? Hearst? He’d never heard of him. AT 8.30 P.M. Extraordinary time of the year—July—to hold meetings. His eye caught the clock—the old Parliament clock at the end of the lounge—eight-thirty. Why not go to the meeting? If Ludo was one of the secretaries perhaps he would be there too. He would have plenty of time for Plumley, even if he missed the chairman. And somebody or other had told him that old Plumley could never speak unless he had a good dinner inside him. Two minutes later he was in a taxi and the driver was wondering why the devil his fare hadn’t walked it.

CHAPTER II

Another Curtain Falls

HAD Wrentham spent his last three years in England instead of in the East many things concerning the position of Henry Plumley would have been more clear to him. Had even his demobilisation not been delayed until this July of 1919 he might have been in a position to make, however unconsciously, certain reasonably obvious deductions. “What great ones do, the less will prattle of,” is more true of a modern financier than it was of that mediaeval count, especially when the financier has decided tendencies towards the spectacular and flamboyant.

There was about Plumley little of that unctuousness, of that desire to add the keys of heaven to the dividends, which characterised those financial geniuses who went wrong a generation or two ago. Rather was he, and ostentatiously, a man of the world; a lover of all the things that money can buy, and as complement, of those things which cause money to melt. His racing stable was small but quality all through, and his breeding establishment at Chalton contained, besides that great sire Martext, two winners of the Oaks, and Volterra, the second mare of the century to win the St. Leger. At Hainton he had leased from the owner the Hall and one of the most famous partridge shoots in England, as soon as it had become vacant by the death of Sir Francis Bereston; which tenant had spent no inconsiderable sum of money upon improvements. At Hindhead he owned a small, well-timbered property of some forty acres. There, handy as it was for Town, he often stayed for a week-end’s golf, at which game few played worse and none more enthusiastically. His Town house in Bellingham Square was said to contain the finest collection of the Flemish School in England, including Van Eyck’s “John Baptising in Jordan.” He owned two theatres, the “Capitol” and the “Metropolis”; one paper, the “Financial Herald,” and was said to have a finger in certain other journalistic pies.

In Kingsway, the offices of City Corporations were, when first erected, one of the sights of London. Nothing like them had been seen before. It seemed as if the idea of the architect had been to convey the suggestion of weight; of sheer, ponderous, immovable and solid weight. To regard them was security and under their shadow was protection.

As to his origins, none could say for certain. There were some who professed to have known him, in the dark backward and abysm of time, as a solicitor’s clerk or a kind of glorified insurance agent; but it is to be doubted whether such knowledge was other than it usually is in these cases, the boasting of some cheap liar broadcast into rumour. Nevertheless, from whatever source he had acquired it, he had in his nature that adaptability which is the greatest asset of the public man. With the man in the street he was the fearless defender of our institutions and the unfeed champion of the under-dog. In sport he would finance any defence of British prestige, whether in boxing, golf, or Olympic games. After his speech at York, following on the great munitions’ strike, he was invited, it is said, to join the Coalition Government. Although unable to accept this, it is significant that in 1917 he became virtual head of the Publicity Department.

As to his business activities I cannot speak with any authority, save that financially he feared publicity as much as he courted it otherwise. Often as his photo appeared in the illustrated papers it was never as a wizard of finance. Governments never approached him for financial accommodations and currencies rocketed unhelped and unhindered by him. City Corporations, ostensibly his main interest, had many and various activities. It included in its scope such diverse methods of attracting the guileless investor as boring for oil in Nova Zembla or the marketing of synthetic alcohol. Less generally known was his connexion with Blacktons, the great steel mills; and Fortice & Ward, that formidab...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page/About the Book
• Contents
• Introduction by Curtis Evans
• Frontispiece Map
• Chapter I The Curtain Rises
• Chapter II Another Curtain Falls
• Chapter III The Hero Appears to be Up Against It
• Chapter IV A Strange Tale is Related
• Chapter V A Question of Daylight or Drivel
• Chapter VI Alarums and Excursions
• Chapter VII Gardening and One of the Fine Arts
• Chapter VIII Night Operations
• Chapter IX A Second Curtain
• Chapter X Meeting of the General Staff
• Chapter XI The Law has an Innings
• Chapter XII Still more Inquiries
• Chapter XIII The Plot Thickens
• Chapter XIV A Batch of Letters
• Chapter XV In which Truth Will Out
• Chapter XVI Lilies and Ladies
• Chapter XVII Reading Between the Lines
• Chapter XVIII The Hero has a Birthday
• Chapter XIX Between Cup and Lip
• Chapter XX The Tired Csar
• Chapter XXI Adventure by Proxy
• Chapter XXII Little Grains of Gravel
• Chapter XXIII Beauty in Distress
• Chapter XXIV Sylvia Forrest's Story
• Chapter XXV Events of July
• Chapter XXVI Events of July
• Chapter XXVII Events of July
• Chapter XXVIII Retirement in Fair Order
• Chapter XXIX Enemy Information
• Chapter XXX Cease Fire
• About the Author
• Titles by Christopher Bush
• The Perfect Murder Case – Title Page
• The Perfect Murder Case – Chapter I
• Copyright