The Unknown Mr. Brown Read online

  THE UNKNOWN MR. BROWN

  Sara Seale

  From the age of fourteen, orphaned Victoria was cared for by a benefactor whom she was never able to meet, the unknown “Mr. Brown”.

  As she grew older she found herself weaving romantic fantasies around him—but wasn’t there a danger that she would as a result, miss the chance of a real-life love of her own?

  CHAPTER ONE

  IT had seemed a long time to the impatient schoolgirl waiting in the outer office of Messrs. Chappie, Chappie & Ponsonby’s city premises on the occasion of that first extraordinary interview before the elderly clerk ushered her into the presence of the senior partner.

  “I’m Victoria Mary Hayes,” she had announced confidingly almost before the door had closed behind her. “Are you Mr. Brown?”

  The benevolent-looking old gentleman who was rising to greet her paused half-way and sat down again, his deceptive air of bonhomie momentarily vanishing behind an expression of prim disapproval.

  “Certainly not,” he replied, sounding faintly shocked. “And I might remind you, young lady, that the identity of your—er—benefactor is no concern of yours. You are very unlikely to meet.”

  “Oh!” She sounded both disappointed and justly reproved, but the next minute had returned to the attack with, he thought, a most improper want of respect. “But it sounds so unlikely. Complete strangers don’t adopt you out of the blue, and if they did they would surely want to have a look at you first—not buying a pig in a poke, if you see what I mean.”

  “Mr. Brown has not adopted you, as we’ve been at some pains to point out in our correspondence, the lawyer retorted a little sharply. “As to having a look at you, as you rather baldly put it, I have already explained that he saw you in court and for reasons best known to himself decided on this rather unusual course of action. Since he has followed the case he is quite aware of your history. Whether he is—er—buying a pig in a poke will be up to you,” he added with a somewhat wintry smile. “It would seem that, unlike counsel for the prosecution, he was—er—not unmoved by your evidence.”

  “Counsel for the prosecution was too busy having a ball at my expense to worry about my feelings. He got a kick out of every minute of it,” she retorted with some venom, and he frowned.

  “My dear child! Robert Farmer is too able and too experienced in cross-examination to—er—get a kick out of making mincemeat of a schoolgirl,” he said with some sharpness. “In my opinion, you should never have been called in the first place, and had Farmer been defending he would not have made that mistake. Your evidence did your father no good.”

  “No,” she answered quietly, sounding suddenly grave and older than her fourteen years, “they told me afterwards I had let him down. You see, Mr. Chappie, I hadn’t understood that I must give prearranged answers even if they weren’t strictly true.”

  “Yes, well ... your evidence was clearly ill-prepared, but it’s all over now and at least you will not have to suffer for your father’s mistakes,” the lawyer said rather testily, but he observed her uneasily across the imposing width of his desk. She sat there staring beyond him at the impressive rows of deed-boxes, looking as she had looked that day in the witness-box, withdrawn to the point of stupidity, with those wide blue eyes staring blankly over Counsel’s shoulder. She was too thin and her face was all angles with ears that were not only a peculiar shape but seemed to be much too large, and he wondered what young Farmer, who was said to have an eye for the ladies, had made of her when he rose to cross-examine. He had dealt with her gently enough to begin with, mindful of Mr. Justice Seldon’s well-known prejudices in the matter of children giving evidence, but she had proved a stubborn and argumentative witness and Farmer could hardly be blamed for a little rough handling towards the end.

  It had been an unsavoury case altogether, Mr. Chappie reflected distastefully, uncovering shady financial transactions which had put several small firms out of business. Grahame Hayes had been a dupe rather than a principal and might have got off lightly, but the defence had been mishandled and he made a bad impression in the box. The court had adjourned, leaving the judge’s summing up for the morrow. Bail having been granted upon a large security, Hayes had returned to his home but, unable to face a prison sentence, he had taken an overdose which, if unsatisfactory from the point of view of justice, at least saved the country expense, thought Mr. Chappie with his usual cynicism.

  It had been tough on the girl of course. The mother had been dead for some years and there were no relations to offer a home or financial security. The expensive education her father had planned for her would certainly have come to nothing but for the whim of an eccentric client with more money than sense and a taste for playing providence, thought Mr. Chappie.

  “Well now,” he said briskly, “returning to Mr. Brown ... have you quite understood this situation?”

  “Understood what?” she asked vaguely.

  “The arrangements that have been made for your future,” the lawyer replied impatiently. Really! The child could look almost half-witted at times with that wide, unblinking stare and the mousy hair dragged back from those prominent ears, giving her a skinned appearance.

  “Oh, yes,” she answered with rather disconcerting composure. “A Trust has been formed which operates until I’m twenty-one. I’m to finish my education along the lines my father had laid down, spend the holidays at places appointed by Mr. Brown, apply to this office for money when necessary, send periodical reports of progress to Mr. Brown and be responsible to Mr. Brown for good behaviour. I suppose,” she added with a sudden grin, “there really is a Mr. Brown?”

  “Oh, yes, my client exists and will expect a reckoning,” he assured her with a heavy attempt at roguishness, “so don’t run away with the idea that you can play ducks and drakes with his money, young lady.”

  She gave him a long, considering look as she got up slowly, smoothing down her brief skirt with unchildlike carefulness, then she bestowed upon him that unexpected slow, rather beguiling smile which, he remembered, had momentarily halted Counsel in the early stages of his cross-examination.

  “I think I’ve learnt my lesson regarding other people’s money, Mr. Chappie,” she said in a cool little voice and, for almost the first time in his professional career, he found himself put out of countenance. He did not like the girl, he decided uncomfortably, and understood very well what had prompted Robert Farmer’s subsequent harshness.

  “My dear child, I had no intention—I was merely using a colloquialism—the sort of—er—avuncular jest not intended to be taken seriously,” he said, rather red in the face, heaving his corpulent figure out of his chair with some effort.

  “That’s quite all right, Mr. Chappie. No hard feelings,” she told him kindly, then suddenly reverted to her proper age. “Mr. Brown must be stinking rich—stinking rich and slightly bats, wouldn’t you say?” she observed. “That isn’t his real name, of course, is it?”

  “It’s the name my client chooses to be known by. As to your other assumption, had I observed any sign of—er—derangement, I would scarcely have been a party to such an undertaking,” he replied rather pompously.

  “No, I suppose not. Still, you must admit it all sounds a bit cock-eyed—unless, of course, he had something to do with my father’s trouble and is salving his conscience. Is he—salving his conscience, I mean?”

  Mr. Chappie’s countenance assumed a purple tinge. “That is a most improper suggestion,” he snapped severely.

  “Improper? I don’t understand. I wasn’t suggesting that the old gentleman was indecent, or anything.”

  He shot her a suspicious glance, resolving firmly to delegate future interviews to one of his partners, but she was gazing at him with what app
eared to be honest perplexity and he cleared his throat gustily.

  “Merely a legal use of the term and not intended to imply—er—indecency—however, you will be well advised to check your quite natural curiosity,” he told her, his hand already on the bell which would summon his clerk. “Your—er—benefactor has particularly stressed that he wishes to remain anonymous, neither does he desire any personal contact with you. Just think of him as someone in the background holding a watching brief for you which, if I may say so without offence, is more than you could rightly expect in the—er—circumstances.”

  “Oh, I entirely agree with you,” she said obligingly, edging towards the door. “If it wasn’t for this mysterious Mr. Brown I would be begging my bread in the streets like the unfortunate heroines in our cook’s favourite romances.” She paused at the door as a fresh thought struck her. “Perhaps I remind him of someone he has lost, which of course would explain things—a much loved only daughter?”

  “As far as I am aware, Mr. Brown is unmarried,” he replied somewhat stiffly, then aware that even this much information was a breach of professional etiquette, he pressed his bell with determined finality.

  She looked surprised but made no comment, then apologising politely for taking up so much of his valuable time, departed abruptly without waiting for the clerk to show her out.

  Now, four years later, Victoria found herself travelling to the same destination on the top of a city-bound bus, summoned at last to a meeting with Mr. Brown. He had assumed so many different disguises through the imaginative years of her schooldays that she told herself the reality was sure to be a let-down. Whether he was a crusty recluse who had been crossed in love, or a reformed criminal expiating his past through charity, or just a rich eccentric with a taste for power, she owed him the security which her father had planned for her and she hoped he would not regret his munificence when they met.

  She had been accustomed for so long to her situation that she had ceased to regard it as strange. She had, as required, written regularly to Mr. Brown, stiff, impersonal little letters, dutifully reporting progress in her studies and receiving in due course brief acknowledgements from Chappie, Chappie & Ponsonby. She wished that Mr. Brown would sometimes reply in person, but he never did, neither despite vague promises, had he ever attended prize-givings or end-of-term theatricals, occasions when the presence of parents and guardians afforded much consequence to the participants.

  The London house had been sold to meet the demands of creditors, but the week-end bungalow in the country had been retained for the period of her schooling, and here the holidays had been spent with Dora Scott, her father’s one-time secretary who had dealt with his private affairs and run his house ever since he had become a widower.

  Upon leaving school Victoria had been against the doubtful advantages of being finished abroad.

  “It’s silly these days when most girls are finding jobs and saving their parents unnecessary expense,” she had told Scottie, “and specially so in my case. When the Trust is finally wound up, I’ll presumably have to earn a living, so why waste time and Mr. Brown’s money playing at being a future deb? It’s time I met this Mr. Brown and put him wise. Who do you think he is, Scottie? One of Father’s less respectable cronies doing penance?”

  “I’ve no idea. Your father had many contacts in all walks of life. Any one of them might conceivably be repaying a favour and, whoever he may be, it doesn’t do to look a gift horse in the mouth. At least he’s giving you the start in life your father had planned for you.”

  “Well, things have changed since then and I’ve done with school now. Far better to send me to some training college where I can learn something useful instead of wasting time being groomed for social occasions which I’m never likely to grace.”

  “Well, why don’t you write and suggest it?” Scottie had said to end the argument, and Victoria had. She not only firmly stated her views, but intimated that it was time she was summoned to a personal interview with Mr. Brown. And summoned she had been to attend the offices of Messrs. Chappie, Chappie & Ponsonby at eleven-thirty on the following Friday when her remarks would be given attention. So here she was, riding on the top of a bus, her anticipation mounting with every mile, determined to like and even to love Mr. Brown in whatever guise he should present himself.

  The bus halted to set down passengers outside the Law Courts and she watched the gowned and bewigged figures hurrying to and fro amongst the loitering sightseers, sharply reminded of her own unhappy experience. She could look back now on that brief interruption in the ordered pattern of her schooldays with discomfort rather than sorrow, but as she gazed down upon those forbidding halls of justice, certain faces rose clearly in her mind as if she had seen them yesterday. Her father, pale and uneasy, sporting the inevitable carnation in his buttonhole and refusing to catch her eye, the judge heavily aloof on his bench, looking rather like a sad, elderly bloodhound whose drooping ears had turned grey, and the thin-lipped, ironic face of the prosecuting counsel as he stripped her of dignity and assurance. She had little recollection of Counsel for the Defence who had taken her so gently through the preliminaries, but Robert Farmer’s face with its fastidious, chiselled look, cold and colourless as the dusty grey of his wig, she would remember always with that same hurt resentment she had felt as a child. Until the advent of Mr. Brown had directed her fancies into other channels it had afforded her pleasure to invent crushing defeats for Mr. Farmer, even bodily harm, and she had been delighted to learn from the gossip columns in the Sunday press that his engagement to some well-known socialite had been broken off on the very eve of marriage. It had been distinctly soothing to the spirit to picture Mr. Farmer suffering the pangs of unrequited love, and although by now he had probably married someone else, Victoria still liked to imagine that things had turned out badly for him.

  The bus dropped her within minutes of her destination and as she mounted the dark staircase to the first floor, the same musty smell of ancient archives greeted her and in the outer office the elderly clerk regarded her over his spectacles with the same air of faint disapproval.

  “I don’t suppose you remember me?” she said gaily, hoping to astonish with her newly acquired emancipation, but he replied with a discouraging lack of surprise as he rose from his desk:

  “Certainly I remember you, Miss Hayes. Please be seated. Mr. Ponsonby will see you in a few minutes.”

  She had not met Mr. Ponsonby and for a moment forgot that he was a partner in the firm.

  “Is that his real name?” she asked eagerly, and felt reproved once more by the chilly glance the old man bestowed on her.

  “It is not the custom of this firm to shelter behind false identities when receiving clients,” he replied coldly, and she gave a small, nervous giggle.

  “I thought you meant Mr. Brown,” she said, feeling both foolish and disappointed.

  “Indeed?” he countered with raised eyebrows, then a buzzer sounded with peremptory impatience and he rose to his feet.

  “Mr. Ponsonby will see you now, miss,” he murmured, and ushered her over to one of the closed doors which separated the office from the partners’ private rooms.

  True to his previous resolution, Mr. Chappie had delegated this interview to his junior partner, and Mr. Ponsonby rose to receive his client with only a faint flicker of curiosity in the gaze which he allowed to dwell on her with momentary appraisal.

  “Well now, Miss Hayes, come and sit down and let’s hear your objections to our arrangements for you,” he said, indicating a chair by the desk. “An opportunity to round off your education abroad isn’t given to many these hard times, I may say.”

  “For that very reason—” she began, then her eyes came to rest on a door at the far end of the room. “Is he in there?” she asked.

  “Mr. Chappie is in Occupation, naturally, but he is busy with a client. Did you wish to see him particularly?” Mr. Ponsonby replied.

  “Not Mr. Chappie. Mr. Brown,” said Victoria
impatiently, and the little lawyer’s rather sparse eyebrows climbed up his forehead.

  “Mr.—er—Brown is not on the premises as far as I am aware,” he said with some surprise. “Had you expected to see him?”

  “Yes—yes, I had. He was obviously the person to discuss my future with and—from the way your letter was worded, I thought—”

  “In that case, there must have been some slight error in the drafting,” Mr. Ponsonby interrupted with a thin smile. “Mr. Brown had no appointment with us, and merely gave instructions to deal with any queries as we saw fit. Now—” he glanced at his watch yet again “—if you would state your reasons for requesting this interview we can clear up any little misunderstanding and set your mind at rest.”

  “You can set my mind at rest best by letting me talk to Mr. Brown,” she answered stubbornly. “Why do I never meet him?”

  “Mr. Brown is a very busy person. He has many commitments.”

  “Such as?”

  “Oh, this and that. His interests cover a wide field.”

  “Who is he, Mr. Ponsonby? Surely you can tell me that much?”

  “I am not in a position to say,” the lawyer replied stiffly and, as it happened, with perfect truth.

  Victoria sighed, feeling not only disappointed, but cheated into the bargain. She had been so sure that this summons to the solicitors’ office was in the nature of a rendezvous, but it looked very much as if the elusive Mr. Brown was determined to remain a myth.

  On being pressed again to state her objections to their arrangements, she did so, but her old assurance had deserted her, knowing the battle to be lost already. Mr. Ponsonby swept aside her ill-expressed opinions with tolerant amusement, read her a short homily on the need to accept good fortune with grace, and pointed out somewhat acidly that most young women in her position would jump at the chance for betterment and not confuse the issue with foolish fancies.

  “In other words, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” said Victoria, remembering Scottie’s crisp retort to her protests.