GUSTAVE (Part 1 of 5)
by Richard Banks
When I received the letter
about Gustave’s death my first reaction was of puzzlement. Why tell me, who had
not clapped eyes on him for nearly twenty years? Even then we were no great
friends, fellow clerks scribbling away at our high desks in the office of
Shadwell & Potter, suppliers of black mourning cloth to a Queen who wanted no other colour. Discouraged from talking to each
other on any subject unconnected to the business of the company we nonetheless
discovered a mutual interest in the frowned on pleasures of the music hall.
Well, why not, we were young men who after a long week of
suffocating tedium deserved our Saturday night fun. But fun in Gustave’s
company was not easily had and usually only got to after three pints of stout
and a whisky chaser. So, why Gustave? he of the brooding disposition whose
small talk consisted almost entirely of bitter sweet memories of
At least Gustave had the distinction of being the first born
son of a Saxon baron with extensive lands and a favoured position at court. But
all had been swept away by the Prussian invasion of ’66 and he and the rest of
his family were now penniless refugees, forced to scrape a living in the
countries to which they had fled. He had travelled to
Our association ended when on the passing of my exams I was
successful in applying for a junior position at a City bank where I am now Assistant Manager of its Holborn Branch. It
was shortly after my promotion to that position that I received the letter about
poor Gustave, who was so faded in my memory that it took me several minutes to
recollect who he was. He, however, had not forgotten me. There was to be a
reading of his Will to which I was invited. The reason for my invitation was
not stated only that my attendance was necessary under the terms of his will to
be read at a Westminster hotel at 2pm, the following Tuesday.
Had Gustave regained his family’s lands I wondered, and, if
so, was I to receive some part of his fortune? The only way of finding out was
to attend the reading, but as that was to take place on a day during the
working week I had first to seek the permission of old Jessop, the Branch
Manager, offering to make-up the lost time later that day or in the days that
followed. He was, I could tell, less than keen on giving me permission,
insisting I submit a written request to head office. This I did and, to
Jessop’s obvious disapproval, they replied that I was to take off whatever time
was necessary and that as a senior member of the Branch I would not be expected
to make good the lost time.
The fact that this message was conveyed to me in person by
the Secretary to the Board was as much a surprise to me as it was to Jessop who
could hardly conceal his annoyance. The Secretary sensing there were ruffled
feathers to be smoothed volunteered the information that the testator, Mr
Gustave Von Wern, had been a valued customer of their Penrith Branch and that I
would, therefore, not only be attending in a personal capacity but as a
representative of the Bank which, not unnaturally, was desirous of retaining
the business of the Von Wern family. Indeed, anything I did to ensure this
happening would be duly noted on my staff record.
An opportunity had opened that seemed likely to be to my
financial benefit as well as furthering my career with the bank. My reply to
the letter was, therefore effusive of the usual pleasantries as I attempted to
endear myself to the legal representatives of my ‘dear and esteemed friend and
former colleague.’ The next opportunity to shine was at the reading itself
which I attended in full mourning dress hired at considerable expense from a
Piccadilly clothier. Arriving early I wasted no time in finding out who
everyone was and handing out my card to those likely to be more important than
myself, but of Jardine, the person who had written to me, there was no trace
until, on the stroke of 2pm he entered, placing himself at the centre of a
table facing a seated audience of some fifty persons. What followed was a long
recital of Gustave’s bequests beginning with his lands and properties both in
this country and abroad, and continuing on to lesser bequests of money and
possessions. By the time Mr Jardine was down to individual items such as
Gustave’s hall clock and an oil painting of his favourite racehorse my hopes of
financial advancement were all but extinguished. Indeed, extinction occurred
when on the bestowal of a silver plated spoon to a housemaid Mr Jardine
announced that the reading of bequests was at an end.
He was, however, not yet finished. There were things that
Gustave wanted doing and payments to be made to those agreeing to do them.
Having escaped responsibility for looking after an elderly relative, and
offering up prayers each day for the salvation of his soul, I found myself
charged with the office of ‘Night Sitter’ for which I was to receive the sum of
one hundred pounds. My pleasure in receiving this useful addition to my worldly
wealth was tempered by apprehension as to what was expected of me. Sitting I
could certainly do but why did this have to be done at night, and for what
purpose? Clearly, I needed to understand the nature of my office before
accepting the money.
Mr Jardine was evidently of a similar mind and, on asking me
to identify myself, requested my presence in the room from which he had
emerged. After briefly expressing his
sympathy to me at the loss of such an esteemed and much missed friend, Mr
Jardine began to enlighten me of certain details about his client that any good
friend would know but that he would tell me none the less. Gustave, a man of
business and noble birth, valuing life as a God given opportunity to make ever
increasing amounts of money was haunted by the knowledge that his father had
been interred in the family vault while still alive, a circumstance discovered
when his coffin was found the day after the funeral shaken from its plinth by
the frenzied efforts of the occupant to free himself. Not unnaturally, Gustave
was anxious, not to say terrified, that the same thing might happen to him. My
commission therefore was to sit with my friend in the hours before his funeral
to make sure that he was truly dead. Indeed if I should discover that he was
still alive his payment to me would be raised to £500. In the meantime Mr
Jardine’s instructions were to give me a cheque for £100 in exchange for my
written agreement to comply with the testator’s request.
While the duty of Night Sitter did not seem the most
agreeable of tasks my refusal to do it was not only going to deprive me of the
signed cheque presently residing on Mr Jardine’s side of the table but the
goodwill of the bank who employed me and had power of preferment. It was,
however, with a faltering hand that I signed the legal document thrust at me
and, on receiving the cheque, was also given a rail ticket to Penrith Station
with instructions to be there the day after next at three in the afternoon from
whence I would be conveyed by carriage to Whinfell, Gustave’s castle home.
The Bank’s willingness to see me undertake the duty assigned
me was not reciprocated by Helen, my wife who thought I might fall foul of
whatever disease or ailment Gustave had died off. My reply that he may have
died of nothing more catching than old age - when he was only in his
forty-third year - did little to ease her fears, or indeed mine. So, what had
he died of? Whatever the cause it was too late to back out now, so equipped
with two bottles of Dr Surebright’s tonic and an aromatic spray for my
handkerchiefs, I took my leave of her with the gravity of a soldier going to
war.
(To Be
Continued)
Copyright
Richard Banks
Excellent start, left wanting to know what comes next?
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