‘So you got the number of this shop?’
Messiter nodded.
‘And when you came to Leadenhall Street, here it was, practically the last pre-Victorian building this side of Lloyd’s?’
Messiter drew on his cigar, scrutinising Braid.
‘All those stamps,’ Braid whispered. ‘Twenty-seven years I’ve owned this shop and the flat without knowing that in the room upstairs was a fortune. It took you to tell me that.’
‘Don’t get the idea it was easy for me,’ Messiter pointed out. ‘Remember I waited practically a year for those French people to move out. That was a test of character, believe me, not knowing what I would find when I took possession.’
Strangely, Braid felt less resentment towards Messiter than the young Victorian woman who had lived in this building, his building, and devised a pastime so sensational in its consequence that his own walls mocked him.
Messiter leaned companionably across the counter. ‘Don’t look so shattered, chum. I’m not the rat you take me for. Why do you think I’m telling you this?’
Braid shrugged. ‘I really couldn’t say.’
‘Think about it. As your tenant, I did nothing underhand. When I took the flat, didn’t I raise the matter of redecoration? You said I was free to go ahead whenever I wished. I admit you didn’t know then that the walls were covered in Penny Blacks, but I wasn’t certain myself till I peeled back the old layers of paper. What a moment that was!’ He paused, savouring the recollection. ‘I’ve had a great year thanks to those stamps. In fact, I’ve set myself up for some time to come. Best of all, I had the unique experience of finding the room.’ He flicked ash from the cigar. ‘I estimate there are still upwards of twenty thousand stamps up there, Mr Braid. In all justice, they belong to you.’
Braid stared in amazement.
‘I’m serious,’ Messiter went on. ‘I’ve made enough to buy a place in the country and write my book. The research is finished. That’s been my plan for years, to earn some time, and I’ve done it. I want no more.’
Frowning, Braid said, ‘I don’t understand why you’re doing this. Is it because of the police? You said there was nothing dishonest.’
‘And I meant it, but you are right, Mr Braid. I am a little shaken to hear of your visit from the inspector.’
‘What do you mean?’
Messiter asked obliquely, ‘When you read your newspaper, do you ever bother with the financial pages?’
Braid gave him a long look. Messiter held his stare.
‘If it really has any bearing on this, the answer is no. I don’t have much interest in the stock market. Nor any capital to invest,’ he added.
‘Just as well in these uncertain times,’ Messiter commented. ‘Blue chip investments have been hard to find these last few years. That’s why people have been putting their money into other things. Art, for instance. A fine work of art holds its value in real terms even in a fluctuating economy. So do jewellery and antiques. And stamps, Mr Braid. Lately a lot of money has been invested in stamps.’
‘That I can understand.’
‘Then you must also understand that information such as this’ — he put his hand on the photostat between them — ‘is capable of causing flutters of alarm. Over the last year or so I have sold to dealers a number of early English stamps unknown to the market. These people are not fools. Before they buy a valuable stamp, they like to know the history of its ownership. I have had to tell them my story and show them the announcement in The Times. That’s all right. Generally they need no more convincing. But do you understand the difficulty? It’s the prospect of twenty thousand Penny Blacks and Twopence Blues unknown to the stamp world shortly coming on to the market. Can you imagine the effect?’
‘I suppose it will reduce the value of stamps people already own.’
‘Precisely. The rarities may not be so rare. Rumours begin, and it isn’t long before there is a panic and prices tumble.’
‘Which is when the sharks move in,’ said Braid. ‘I see it now. The police probably suspect the whole thing is a fraud.’
Messiter gave a nod.
‘But you and I know it isn’t a fraud,’ Braid went on. ‘We can show them the room. I still don’t understand why you are giving it up.’
‘I told you the reason. I always planned to write my book. And there is something else. It’s right to warn you that there is sure to be publicity over this. Newspapers, television — this is the kind of story they relish, the unknown Victorian girl, the stamps undiscovered for over a century. Mr Braid, I value my privacy. I don’t care for my name being printed in the newspapers. It will happen, I’m sure, but I don’t intend to be around when it does. That’s why I am telling nobody where I am going. After the whole thing has blown over, I’ll send you a forwarding address, if you would be so kind...’
‘Of course, but—’
A customer came in, one of the regulars. Braid gave him a nod and wished he had gone to the kiosk up the street.
Messiter picked up the conversation. ‘Was it a month’s notice we agreed? I’ll see that my bank settles the rent.’ He took the keys of the flat from his pocket and put them on the counter with the photostat. ‘For you. I shan’t need these again.’ Putting a hand on Braid’s arm, he added, ‘Some time we must meet and have a drink to Miss E.D.’s memory.’
He turned and left the shop and the customer asked for twenty Rothmans. Braid lifted his hand in a belated salute through the shop window and returned to his business. More customers came in. Fridays were always busy with people collecting their cigarettes for the weekend. He was thankful for the activity. It compelled him to adjust by degrees and accept that he was a rich man now. Unlike Messiter, he would not object to the story getting into the press. Some of these customers who had used the shop for years and scarcely acknowledged him as a human being would choke on their toast and marmalade when they saw his name one morning in The Times.
It satisfied him most to recover what he owned. When Messiter had disclosed the secret of the building, it was as if the twenty-seven years of Braid’s tenure were obliterated. The place was full of Miss E.D. That young lady — she would always be young — had in effect asserted her prior claim. He had doubted if he would ever again believe it was truly his own. But now that her ‘whimsical project’ had been ceded to him, he was going to take pleasure in dismantling the design, stamp by stamp, steadily accumulating a fortune Miss E.D. had never supposed would accrue. Vengeful it might be, but it would exorcise her from the building that belonged to him.
Ten minutes before closing time, Inspector Gent entered the shop. As before, he waited for the last customer to leave.
‘Sorry to disturb you again, sir. I have that warrant now.’
‘You won’t need it.’ Braid cheerfully told him. ‘I have the key. Mr Messiter was here this morning.’ He started to recount the conversation.
‘Then I suppose he took out his cutting from The Times?’ put in the inspector.
‘You know about that?’
‘Do I?’ he said caustically. ‘The man has been round just about every stamp shop north of Birmingham telling the tale of that young woman and the Penny Blacks on her dressing-room wall.’
Braid frowned. ‘There’s nothing dishonest in that. The announcement really did appear in The Times, didn’t it?’
‘It did, sir. We checked. And this is the address mentioned.’ The inspector eyed him expressionlessly. ‘The trouble is that the Penny Blacks our friend Messiter has been selling in the north aren’t off any dressing-room wall. He buys them from a dealer in London, common specimens, about ten pounds each one. Then he works on them.’