This Was a Man (The Clifton Chronicles #7)(33)
‘So what do you advise?’
‘Sadly, madam, we have been left with only two choices. I can throw myself on their mercy, which I cannot believe will be met with any sympathy.’
‘And the second option?’
‘You can declare yourself bankrupt. That would make the other side realize that issuing a writ for two million pounds would be a complete waste of time and money, unless Mr Grant’s sole purpose is to publicly humiliate you.’ The lawyer remained silent as he waited for his client’s response.
‘Thank you for your advice, Sir Edward,’ Virginia said eventually, ‘and I am sure you will appreciate that I’ll need a little time to consider my position.’
‘Of course, my lady. However, it would be remiss of me not to remind you that the date on Goodman Derrick’s letter is March thirteenth, and should we fail to respond before April thirteenth, you can be sure the other side will not hesitate to carry out their threat.’
‘May I ask you one more question, Sir Edward?’
‘Of course.’
‘Am I right in thinking that a writ has to be served on the person named in the action?’
‘That is correct, Lady Virginia, unless you instruct me to accept it on your behalf.’
During her journey north the following morning, Virginia gave some considerable thought to her QC’s advice. By the time the train pulled into Salford station, she had decided to invest some of the twelve thousand pounds she was about to collect in a one-way ticket to Buenos Aires.
When a taxi dropped her outside the estate agent’s office, she switched her attention to the job in hand, and how much more money she could accumulate before departing for Argentina. Virginia was not surprised to be ushered into the senior partner’s office within moments of telling the receptionist her name.
A man who had clearly put on his Sunday best suit for the occasion leapt up from behind his desk and introduced himself as Ron Wilks. He waited for her to be seated before resuming his place. Without another word, he opened a file in front of him, extracted a cheque for ￡11,400 and handed it across to her. Virginia folded it, placed it in her handbag and was about to leave when it became clear that Mr Wilks had something else to say.
‘During the short conversation I was able to have with Mr Mellor over the phone,’ he said, trying not to sound embarrassed, ‘he didn’t instruct me as to what I should do about his mother’s goods and chattels, which we have removed from the house and placed in storage.’
‘Are they worth anything?’
‘A local second-hand scrap merchant has offered four hundred pounds for the lot.’
‘I’ll take it.’
The estate agent opened his cheque book and asked, ‘Should this cheque also be made out to Lady Virginia Fenwick?’
‘Yes.’
‘Of course, this doesn’t include the pictures,’ said Wilks as he handed over the cheque.
‘The pictures?’
‘It seems Mr Mellor’s mother had been collecting the works of a local artist for some years, and a London dealer has recently contacted me to say he would be interested in purchasing them. A Mr Kalman of the Crane Kalman gallery.’
‘How interesting,’ said Virginia, making a note of the name, only wondering if she still had enough time to contact him.
On the journey back to King’s Cross, she went over her plans for the next few days. She would first have to dispose of any other valuables she still had and be on her way to Heathrow before any of her creditors were aware that she had, to quote her friend Bofie Bridgwater, done a bunk. As for Desmond Mellor, by the time he got out of prison, she would be the least of his problems, and Virginia was confident he wouldn’t consider pursuing her halfway round the world for a few thousand pounds.
Virginia was grateful for Sir Edward’s advice. After all, it would be difficult for anyone to serve her with a writ if they didn’t know where she was. She’d already told Bofie she would be spending a few weeks in the South of France, to throw everyone off the scent. She didn’t give a passing thought to what would become of Freddie. After all, he wasn’t her child.
Soon after arriving back at her flat, Virginia was pleased to receive a telephone call from her distant cousin, confirming that a chauffeur would meet her at the airport and then drive her to his estate in the country. She liked the words chauffeur and estate.
Once Virginia had cashed Mellor’s cheques, cleared her bank account and purchased a one-way ticket to Buenos Aires, she set about the long process of packing. She quickly discovered just how many of her possessions, not least her shoes, she couldn’t live without, and reluctantly accepted that she would have to buy another large suitcase. A short walk to Harrods usually solved most of her problems, and today was no exception. She managed to find a trunk with a dent in the side, and agreed to take it off their hands for half price. The young salesman hadn’t noticed the dent before.
‘Be sure to deliver it to my home in Chelsea,’ she instructed the hapless assistant, ‘later this morning.’
A green-coated doorman opened the door and touched the peak of his cap as Virginia stepped out on to the Brompton Road.
‘Taxi, madam?’
She was about to say yes when her gaze settled on an art gallery on the other side of the road. Crane Kalman. Why did she know that name? And then she remembered.