17. IN HOWARD’S BANK

A very old fashioned bank.

A gigantic clock still cast its shadow over the first floor window of Howard’s bank. Chantelle was there with the solicitor, Mr Penn. She was there, she believed, to receive a gift from an old man she’d only met once, and that was on the day he died. Mr Penn smiled at Chantelle.

“This is the place,” he said, “my client used several banks, but the very first one was here, in Brumpton, at Howard’s Bank. And if we go inside I’ll explain to them that we have a key to one of Mr Spendthrift’s lockers. I have, of course, a copy of his death certificate and the letter he enclosed with the key to yourself. It should all be quite straight forward.”

The bank is one of those places that seemed to have remained unchanged though decades had passed. It seemed that one of the very few strides it had taken since its inception during the nineteenth century was the installation of an ATM, incongruously modern when compared to the rest of the bank. The tellers wore sober suits and dull ties and the atmosphere was one of total and mind-numbing sobriety, as if money and the coming and going of bank affairs were the entire occupation of humanity. And the atmosphere was hushed with short and almost statuesque queues waiting for service in total silence.

Chantelle had never been in such a place before. True, she’d been with her parents to other banks, the popular establishments on the High Street, but Howard’s bank was distinguished from them by its huge clock and its ancient sober atmosphere.

“Now this is a proper bank,” whispered Mr Penn, “it’s the sort of place where proper people come to do business, where every pound has a value, where cheques can still be cashed and the customers know that all is well with the world the moment they walk through the doors.”

By the time he had finished whispering that eulogy a pin-striped man with a fine moustache and keen blue eyes had arrived next to the solicitor, and introduced himself. Chantelle half expected him to be called Mr Cash but he wasn’t.

“Mr Wudget-Screw,” he introduced himself as if Wudget-Screw was a perfectly normal name and they were whispering to each other in a perfectly normal building. Chantelle found herself smiling, but being the decent girl she was she hid it behind a cough.

“This is Chantelle,” murmured the solicitor, “a great friend, I believe to the late and much lamented Mr Spendthrift of Durnley Bottoms. He spoke most highly of her when he came to see me on the subject that is before us, that being one of the keys to one of your most secure boxes. Chantelle, he said, was a young woman he had never spoken to and he suspected that she had no idea that she existed on this Earth, but he observed her from time to time as she strolled past his home and his heart was warmed by the sound of her singing.”

“A pretty and sincere voice can work wonders,” nodded Mr Wudget-Screw. “I have a granddaughter who has the voice of an angel and I love her dearly. One day she may enter the opera, I hope, and send her voice soaring to the Heavens on wings of the purest sound...”

“Quite so,” nodded Mr Penn. “But to business, sir. Here I have the letter trusted to me for safe keeping which the deceased intended me to deliver to Chantelle on his death. So sad, that was, so sad. It was me who was obliged to seek the young lady out and ensure it was the one he intended, and that was while he yet lived. I knew instantly that it must be when I knocked their door and heard her singing… I made some excuse, a wrong address, and left when I was convinced that his Chantelle was this Chantelle...”

“So fastidious of you, sir,” nodded Mr Wudget-Screw, “it warms my heart when I realise how the old standards of service and loyalty haven’t dissolved away altogether. But many have, you know, many, many have...”

Mr Penn looked at him and nodded suavely. “You are so right, Mr Wudget-Screw,” he agreed, “but to the matter in hand. Here I have the certificate of death, such a heavy document for a life-long friend to be obliged to bring to you on so bright a day. But it is my duty, and like you, sir, I am obliged to do my duty. It is the one constant in my life, that, and a good wife at home, and a crystal decanter of single malt!”

“Quite so,” agreed Mr Wudget-Screw as he peered at length at the death certificate. “It is so sad,” he continued, “for I have served the late Mr Spendthrift all my working life. I have had to cash his cheques for him, deal with his many businesses for him and it is a matter of almost total unhappiness that I have to acknowledge that he is no longer with us. I did attend his wake, of course, for what are wakes for if not for old friends to sip a glass of something mighty strong and wish bon voyage to men such as Mr Spendthrift, or Baxter as I liked to call him.”

“And here is the key, the precious key,” continued the solicitor, and he held it up. “Now, sir, if you will conduct me to your vaults I will assist Chantelle here as she discovers her future. For I knew Mr Spendthrift well and I am cognisant of the fact that he was, if nothing else, generous to a fault.”

“Then this way, Mr Penn and you Miss, er, Miss Chantelle” said the bank manager, and he conducted them through a door, down a short passage and a shorter flight of steps until they came to the most secure area in the bank.

He had the key to an inner door, a magnificent affair in iron and brass with a crest depicting a knight on horseback and the motto “SAFE HOME”.

Beyond that door was a huge room lined with safety boxes, all shut fast and bearing only a number.

“Your box is over there,” pointed Mr Wudget-Screw, “see where I point. There that’s it. It is the policy of Howard’s Bank that none of its employees know the secrets of our clients, so I will remain here. But you must open the box, Chantelle, you must insert your key and discovered what you may.”

Chantelle looked at him and the way his moustache seemed to roll from side to side with every syllable that he uttered. Then she looked at My Penn, the solicitor, and finally she walked, key in hand, towards the locker bearing the number written in the dead hand of Baxter Spendthift on the letter she was holding in her hand.

© Peter Rogerson 16.12.19