GUSTAVE (Part 1 of 4) 

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 Lower Saxony. But who else could there be when my days were taken up by work and my evenings shut away studying for the commercial diploma I hoped would change my life.

         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 London in hope of finding favour with the Prince of Wales to whom he was related through the Prince Consort, but his letter of introduction although delivered by himself to the Palace had not even been acknowledged. Fate had not been kind to Gustav and those who listened were, more often than not, ‘treated’ to a long litany of his misfortunes.

         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

 Two Haiku (from Rob)

 

Robert Kingston

 

I am pleased to let you know that the following pieces have been accepted for publication within Issue #111 of Failed Haiku.

 

foundry floor

steelworkers dance about

the overspill

 

bonfire night

the Roman candle finishes

with a puff

 

 THE RAYLEIGH SET

by Richard Banks

[Written in 2017, a year after the publication of Essex Tales V, this spoof history mentions present and past members of the Group but, regretfully, not those who have joined us in the last eight years.]

 

Article from The Times Literary Supplement, published on 15^th July 2124        

         At a hastily convened press conference the British Library yesterday stunned the literary world by announcing that a small blood stain on their copy of Essex Tales, Volume V, is that of Richard Banks, a founder member of the legendary Rayleigh Set.

         The book, which is one of only three surviving copies, has the further distinction of being signed by Banks and W.R. French, the First World War novelist. Their signatures appear below a brief dedication to someone called Linda to whom the book was presumably sold. Judging by its pristine condition the book appears to have been little read by Linda, or anyone else. Remarkably there are no finger prints on the inside pages beyond page eleven.

         Discovered five years ago by a second hand book dealer in the loft of a terraced house awaiting demolition, it was purchased by the British Library for a fee believed to be in the region of £25m. Now worth over £40m the blood stain, previously regarded as a minor blemish, is likely to double or treble the book’s value.

         The suggestion, first mooted by art historian Julian Gray, that the blood may once have flowed through the veins of one of its authors prompted the RSS (Rayleigh Set Society) to oversee DNA tests on two of W.R. French’s descendants. When these failed to match his blood with that on the book a worldwide search ensued for descendents of Banks which eventually located his two times great grandson, Wang Hai Lei, on a tea plantation in the Chinese protectorate of Sri Lanka. Blood samples taken from him confirmed beyond doubt that the blood stain was that of the author. Although the copyright on the stories and poems of the Rayleigh Set expired in 2097 Wang’s new found fame should soon enable him to develop revenue streams that in the case of Tobias Lewis- Woodgate, the 2x great grandson of Peter Woodgate (Poet Laureate In Aeternum) has earned Lewis over thirty million pounds from endorsements and public appearances.

         Sadly none of the original authors benefitted financially from the five volumes of Essex Tales produced in the first two decades of the last century. Published by the Rayleigh Set in print runs totalling no more than 600 copies, the authors sold their books at fairs and bazaars, donating their profits to charity. This might have been the extent of their fame had it not been for an employee of Penguin Books who, coming across a copy of Volume III at a jumble sale, persuaded her employers to publish. Its instant success in the early years of this century sparked a nationwide search for other volumes which so far has failed to uncover the first book in the series.

         Credited with reawakening public interest in the short story the books have now been published in over eighty countries selling 200 million copies. Their success has spawned a commercial bandwagon which at the present time includes seven major films as well as theme parks in London, San Francisco and Tokyo. Further parks in Paris and Beijing are scheduled to open in 2127.

         In less than twenty years the literary creations of the authors have sometimes blurred the line between fact and fiction. In a recent poll to identify the ten most famous Britons, Pitsea Pete, the comic creation of Bob Watson, was voted into third place narrowly behind Elizabeth I and Sir Winston Churchill. Had there been a poll for the most famous dog this would almost certainly have been won by Jack, Jane Scoggins’ WWI messenger dog, the number one visitor attraction at the London franchise in Battersea Park. The recent escape of one of the three Labradors trained to impersonate Jack triggered a nationwide search for the dog, real name Scoggy, which was eventually found trying to deliver a letter to the Battersea Dogs’ Home.

         Another animal creation of Essex Tales, the injured fox of Leonard Morgan’s story ‘Foxy Magic,’ is commemorated in the fox sanctuary at Hullbridge, Essex on the banks of the river Crouch. Yearly enactments of the classic story attract more visitors than the Summer Solstice at Stonehenge. A further two million persons regularly log on to the sanctuary’s web site of which a select one hundred viewers are allowed to sponsor individual foxes for annual fees that only the super rich can afford.

         Undoubtedly the place profiting most from the tales of the Rayleigh Set is Rayleigh itself which in recent years has doubled in size with the building of over twenty high-rise hotels. The flood of visitors, which during the summer months threatens to gridlock the pedestrianised streets of the town centre, have no shortage of attractions to visit. The High Street now mainly given over to souvenir shops and cafes still contains a number of buildings with known connections to the authors. The library where they met is probably the most photographed building in the world, while the branch of Iceland’s where Banks did his food shopping now sells only the beef curry convenience meal to which he was allegedly addicted. Purchasers of these are allowed a single perambulation of the perimeter aisle before exiting the building close to the British Heart Foundation shop that will forever be associated with W.R. French.

         Further attractions include the Post Office which issues commemorative stamps bearing the heads of individual authors, and the former home of Dorothy Chiverrell, now at the centre of the ‘Sitting Tennant’ visitor attraction featuring interactive 3D images of Jan and Betty and other characters from the eight stories she is known to have written. The recent opening of Unsworth Boulevard (formerly Cheapside East) is another major attraction that will only increase visitor numbers. Dedicated to the memory of Sis Unsworth, the ‘Downhall Bard’, it contains her house and garden, now a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and six other buildings dedicated to her much loved poems.

         As we draw close to the one hundredth anniversary of Banks’ death we may well reflect on the moment in time when a drop of his blood splashed down onto the book purchased by Linda. How this happened is an Essex Tale that may never be told. Should it appear in a yet to be discovered copy of the fabled volume VI it will have no shortage of readers. The world waits and hopes.   

Copyright Richard Banks

In the blackbird’s wake

 

Sleep is not something I am good at. Listening to yet another dawn chorus is a commonality I share with the birds. Today is no different to yesterday as I read and tune into noise from others around the globe

 

whale song

weaving my way back

into a dream

 

Robert Kingston, UK

First published, Pan Haiku review 5 2025

 

 UNCLE GEORGE  [Part 10 & Resolution]

By Richard Banks  

We awake to find the window wide open and the sun streaming in between curtains we have neglected to draw. It’s ten thirty and after a half hearted attempt to clear-up we begin the journey back to London and our jobs, which despite the upturn in our fortunes may still be needed.

         On Wednesday we read about us in the on-line editions of the Chronicle and Echo, and by Friday we have reporters from the London papers wanting to speak to us. Of Carew there is no mention. This can only be good news. For him our meeting on Saturday will be about what he thinks can be salvaged from his shabby attempt to defraud us. We can hardly wait to see the look on his face now we have the better of him, but when we get to the road running past the Gallery we find it taped off and a policeman on sentry duty. There’s smoke in the air and ash on the ground. A short distance away a thin plume of smoke is wafting up from the blaze that, although hidden by the bend in the road, can only be that of the Gallery.

         A fire engine departing the scene pulls up on the other side of the tape and the policeman lets it by. We, however, are informed that the road is closed and that we can not pass. We turn around, find a parking place several streets back and return on foot to find the tape back in place but the policeman missing. A trickle of people are taking advantage of his absence to slip by unchallenged. We join them and on arriving at the entrance to the Gallery stare across the car park at the charred remains of the gutted building.

         The wrought iron gates at the entrance to the car park are closed and one of the two policemen standing there tells us that the road is shortly to be reopened and that, for our own safety, we must stand on the far pavement. Any hope of this happening is thwarted by the arrival of further sightseers who finding no space on the pavement have no choice but to spill out onto the road. Among them is a familiar figure who, is walking boldly down the centre of the road. On being saluted by one of the policeman he addresses them in the genial fashion for which he’s now well known. It’s Callow who takes it upon himself to address the crowd and request their dispersal. The fire, he says, is as good as out and the embers must be left to cool. An official statement will be made later that day, until then there is nothing more to be said or seen. The crowd evidently agree and after taking the usual selfies begin to drift-off in the direction they have come. As the crowd thins he spots us and saunters over.

         “Thought I would find you here,” he says. “As you can see your 2 o’clock has been cancelled. I’m afraid you will have to make do with me instead. Why don’t we have a bite to eat at that nice restaurant we were at last Monday. I’ve got quite a lot to tell you.”

         “What’s happened?” asks Ally whose initial bewilderment is beginning to give way to panic. “Has everything been destroyed?”

         “You mean has your precious picture perished in the flames. Alas, the fire spread too quickly, for anything to be saved. But before we get on to that, and while there’s no one within earshot, let’s talk about that letter informing your uncle of his lottery win. You might have got away with it but for the fact that criminals like the Beale’s know many other criminals and once they decided to check-out your story it didn’t take too long before they came across the forger who did it. Unsurprisingly, this led them to believe that the picture had been purchased by your uncle with money they regard as belonging to themselves. A subsequent meeting with Carew was more than enough to confirm their suspicions. Sadly it appears that he was still in the building when the fire took hold.

         “You mean, he’s dead?” Says Ally struggling to get the words out.

         “No doubt about it, I have it on good authority.”

         “You mean the Beale’s? Was it them who did this?”

         “Let’s walk. There’s someone I want you both to meet - the reason why we are having this conversation. Mr Kovac is his name, not his real name of course, but it will do. Mr Kovac is an art dealer on the black web, with clients in the far east, who is keen on adding your picture to the many others he has sold into private collections. While he is not adverse to a fire sale he is less than convinced that what we are offering him is what was in the Gallery until yesterday. We thought that if he was to meet you, the present owner and hear you say that we’re acting on your behalf we would then be able to agree a deal.” 

         “And why should I do that?” I say.

         “Why not. It’s win, win. You receive the insurance money for the picture while the Beale’s get to keep the money Mr Kovac will be giving them. Anyway, what’s the alternative? Do you really want to get on the wrong side of the Beales? You know what they can do. Why put yourselves at risk? No, better if you meet Mr Kovac, tell him that you are willing participants in our little enterprise, then we all walk away much better-off than we were before. Come on now, you know it makes sense. Indeed, given the circumstances, the Beale’s have been unusually generous.”

         It was an offer not to be refused, so we said yes, what else could we do? Our meeting with Mr K, his accountant and a large, muscular man with a boxer’s face lasted little more than thirty minutes, and on eating next to nothing of our meals, we returned to Petherdale.

        

                              

                                    UNCLE GEORGE      [Final Resolution]

The prospect of remaining in Norfolk was now less than appealing and having put Uncle’s  house up for sale we departed back to London hoping against hope that we had seen the last of Callow and the Beale’s. The insurance claim that Mr Wells submitted on our behalf was settled a year later after the various investigations into the fire found no evidence of wrong doing. Of Carew nothing was found beyond charred fragments of bone from which it was not possible to extract DNA.

         We invested our ill-gotten gains in a Surrey mansion but otherwise did nothing likely to come to the attention of the Beale’s who we feared might still do us harm. Thankfully they never have. Others have not been so lucky. In 2021 Seth Beale, the second son of Frankie, was tried at the Old Bailey for murder but discharged when the main witness for the prosecution went missing, never to be seen again. It was in newspaper coverage of the trial that we learned that Frankie had died of a heart attack. While this at first seemed like good news the downside was that his sons were now in charge and, with no fond memories of ‘good old George’, might be thinking that our deal with their father was too generous to ourselves. Six years on from our altercation in a narrow country lane will not have been forgotten.    

         When my firm decided to set-up a new office in Prague I volunteered to help set it up, and Ally, who was in between jobs, came too. It was at the Havelska Market that we made fleeting contact with someone who had even more reason than ourselves to be keeping a low profile. The look of horror on his face when our eyes met was more than enough to tell me that this was no doppelgänger; Carew was alive and, judging by the way he was dressed, doing very nicely. On the crowded pavement he was past us and out of sight in seconds.

         It did not take us long to realise that if Carew was ever to be apprehended by the police what he had to say might well invalidate our insurance claim and send us to prison. Did the Beale’s know he was still alive - they who were supposed to have murdered him? Was there anything that made sense and might not, one day, become a danger to ourselves? It was with a sense of things unravelling that we returned to England in 2023 determined to live our lives to the full and without fear of things we were powerless to prevent. We cherish every day.                                                                    

                                                      *****      

         This document, relating mainly to the events of April 2015, has been lodged with the HSBC bank along with our separate wills which Ally insisted we make following the birth of our son, David George. It is to be handed to him, or his guardian, on the passing of both his parents.

         Having set out the circumstances by which we acquired our fortune my intention has been to both inform and forewarn. If read many years from now, its only function will, I hope, be to entertain - a ripping yarn in which his parents had the starring roles. As outcomes go there can be none better.

 

                                                                                          Phillip Jones

                                                                                            14^th March 2024.

 

[This paper handed to Mr Joseph Jones, executor of Mr Phillip Jones and guardian of his only child, David George, at the reading of the testator’s will on 12^th February 2025 – Caldow & Brent, sols.] 

 Copyright Richard Banks

 

Riddles 27

 Riddles 27

 

By the Riddler

The Riddler has two puzzles for us today:

 

No 1.  What is the fewest number of coins you can pay 99p with?

 

No 2. What digit has appeared in every date since 30.11.1999?

 

Keep em coming Riddler

 The Day the Rains Came Down

By  Sis Unsworth 

I am sure I heard the trees sigh, as I gazed up at the darkened sky

The flowers seem to bow and pray, in hope the rain would come today. 

All the earth was parched and dry, I heard the seagull’s eerie cry.

What they needed now had come, as angry clouds blocked out the sun.

The rain fell with sheer delight, continuing throughout the night.

Following the summer storm, lightning flashed till early morn.

The world became a different place, the trees stood tall & full of grace.

The grass revived began to grow, and mother nature seemed to glow.

The ponds and lakes so full of pride, now complement the country side

The rain cascading from the leaves, make music of the summer breeze.

I know how long we had to wait, but when it came it sure felt great!

I’m glad it rained, I really am, it saved me from a hosepipe ban.

Copyright Sis Unsworth