Chapter Thirteen —Friday— A Very Puisne Mortgage
But here a grievance seems to lie
All this is mine but till I die
I can’t but think ’twould sound more clever
“To me and to my heirs for ever.”
Lines inserted by Pope in Swift’s
Imitation of the Sixth Satire of Horace
I
Friday was quite a day.
Bohun spent the first hour of it down in the firm’s strong-room. This was the kingdom of Sergeant Cockerill, and like everything about the sergeant, it was neat and well-ordered and artistically efficient.
The deeds and papers which, in a normal solicitor’s office, lie about in insubordinate bundles loosely constrained with red tape, had been strait-jacketed into card and canvas folders; and these, in their turn, stood dressed by the right on shelves of slab slate. Occupying the serrefile rank, two paces to the right and two paces to the rear, stood the Ledger of Wills, the Ledger of Securities and the Ledger of Deeds. It was through this last book that Bohun was searching.
“Was there any particular deeds that you had in mind, sir?” enquired Sergeant Cockerill.
“Well—no. Not really. I know the sort of thing I’m looking for, but I don’t know exactly what it is. I shall probably recognise it when I see it, if you see what I mean.”
“If it’s any help to you,” said Sergeant Cockerill, “you’ll find all the deeds indexed under the name of the client and cross-indexed under the name of the partner who deals with them.”
“Yes, that should help,” said Bohun. “I know it was Abel Horniman.”
Sergeant Cockerill looked up rather sharply at this, but said nothing.
Bohun also paused in his search and for a moment there was silence in the vaulted tomb-like room with its door of eight-inch steel.
“You were very attached to him, weren’t you?” said Bohun.
The sergeant did not pretend not to understand him.
“Yes,” he said. “More than thirty years I knew him. He was a good man to work for. I’d say he was a great man.”
This struck a chord all right. Bohun had to think for a moment, then he remembered that Miss Cornel had used almost exactly the same words.
“I was his batman in 1914,” went on Sergeant Cockerill. “That surprises you. You didn’t know that Mr. Horniman went to France in the Gunners. He was too old for such capers, really: but go he would. Lucky for him, I always thought, he got pneumonia on top of a sharp nip of muscular rheumatism. It was the damp and the cold. Between ’em, they nearly did for him. But I reckon they saved his life, none the less. He had a medical board and got taken out of the army. We were all sorry to see him go. Yes, a great man.”
For all practical purposes the sergeant was now talking to himself.
“He was waiting outside the depot on the day I was demobbed. I hadn’t told him. He’d found out. That was the sort of man he was. He stood me a drink and offered me a job. Well, that was longer ago than I care to think of.” The sergeant turned about abruptly. “I must go and make them their teas. I can’t trust that young Charlie with it. Sixteen years in this mortal vale and he still hasn’t learnt to warm the pot.”
When the sergeant had gone, Bohun did not immediately resume his search of the register. An illusive memory was teasing him. He thought it was something to do with Cockerill. He couldn’t put his finger on it. After a bit he gave up trying.
Using the index it took him surprisingly little time to trace the deeds he wanted. He made a careful note of dates and parties on a piece of paper and then turned to the deed containers on the shelf. They were numbered to correspond with the ledger and he soon had his hand on the right envelope. It was empty except for an old deed receipt. Some minutes later he was upstairs in his room talking to John Cove.
“Do you remember the sale of Longleaf Farm?”
“It is inscribed on the tablets of my heart,” said John. “It was the very first piece of conveyancing that I did in this office.”
“I thought I made out your initials on the deed receipt. Can you tell me about it?”
“What do you want to know?” said John. “The vendor, if my memory serves me, was one Daniel Jedd. The purchaser, a Major Wright. If you’re passionately interested I’ll get out the file. Here you are. It was quite a straightforward title. Indeed, I suspect that’s why Abel gave it to me as a first effort. It started with—yes—three straight conveyances. The first in 1880. Another in 1901 and the third to Ezekiel Jedd in 1920. He settled it by his will and died in 1925. Then there’s a vesting deed—vesting it in his son Amos as life tenant. Amos died in 1935. Another vesting deed, in Daniel Jedd, who, without further ado, barred his entail and sold as absolute owner in 1938. Bob’s your uncle.”
“And it was the same property all the way through. All the way from 1880 onwards, I mean.”
“To the last blade of grass.”
“Then,” said Bohun, “why weren’t the first three conveyances handed over when it was finally sold out of this office?”
“Yes, I remember. Abel did say something about that. I can’t remember what. The root of title we offered was the 1926 vesting deed.”
“That was all right as far as it went,” said Henry. “But you’d have thought that the earlier deeds would have been handed over too, or else”—he pointed to the draft conveyance—“the usual acknowledgment given for their safe custody.”
“Now that you mention it, that does seem a bit odd. Are you absolutely certain they weren’t handed over?”
“Absolutely. The conveyances of 1880, 1901 and 1920 were never marked out of the deeds register here at all. And look—here’s a copy of the schedule. It starts with the vesting deed of 1926.”
“So it does,” said John, scratching his head. “Why do you suppose Abel wanted to keep the early deeds—he never struck me as the type who would go in for home-made lamp shades.”
“I don’t think he kept them for lamp shades,” said Bohun slowly. “I think—oh, that’s probably for me. Hullo. Yes, Bohun speaking.”
“We’ve traced that bank account,” said Hazlerigg’s voice. “In view of what you told me early this morning I thought you might find it interesting. The quarterly payments were made to the Husbandmen’s League Friendly and Loan Society. Their office is in Lombard Street.”
“Fine,” said Bohun. “I’ll go straight along.”
“I take it that hunch you had is working out then.”
“Very nicely.”
“Keep me posted,” said Hazlerigg, and rang off.
“What’s it all about?” said John.
“My idea, roughly,” said Bohun, “is that Abel Horniman forged a set of title deeds. Well—not forged, really. That’s the wrong word. He effected a little rearrangement. Something after this style. I think he got hold of three solid-looking and obviously genuine conveyances—just for the sake of argument let’s say the three first conveyances of Longleaf Farm, that we’ve just been talking about. Those particular ones were very suitable because they hadn’t got a plan on them—just a description. I think he took the last one—the 1920 conveyance, the one to Ezekiel Jedd, removed the last page, and sewed in a new one that he’d written out himself, in law script—that was the sort of thing he did rather well, wasn’t it?”
“Oh, yes. He wrote a beautiful copperplate. The perfect practical conveyancer.”
“It stuck in my mind that Mr. Birley said something of the sort at the firm’s dinner. Well, I think the page he faked up had a plan on it. Furthermore, and here I’m guessing again, I think it was a plan of Abel’s own farm—Crookham Court Farm. Then all he had to do was to draw up a conveyance purporting to be by Ezekiel Jedd to himself—again with a plan of Crookham Court Farm—perfectly open and above board—take it down to the Stamp Office and have it stamped, and there you are.”