"In the last third of the nineteenth century England s cultivated acreage declined by nearly three million acres. In the same years, British industry lost its anility to he competitive. Hoping to improve the situation, many eagerly latched onto any scheme tor industrial development. Among these was tne development 01 tne motor car."
At the same moment, Bradford and Charles were traveling in the Marsden carriage from Colchester to Bishop's Keep. Charles, having spent the first hour of the morning searching fruitlessly for information about the Order of the Golden Dawn, and the second in unproductive conversation with Inspector Wainwright, had determined to give up his investigations altogether.
"It is futile," he said sourly, watching the countryside flash past the carriage window. ' 'If the killer is caught, it will be because the police stumble upon him."
Bradford roused himself from his inward contemplations with some difficulty. "What d'you expect?" he asked gloomily. "Police are a grubby, incompetent lot. You have better things to do with your time than mucking about with them."
"I suppose," Charles said. Of course, there was still the vicar, who might be persuaded to tell what he knew. And
Kathryn Ardleigh, who had some reason to associate Mrs. Farnsworth and Monsieur Armand and could perhaps be led to reveal it. Or he could return to Mrs. Farnsworth and see if he could rattle" No, by Jove!" he exclaimed out loud, striking one hand with the other fist, "I'm no Holmes, and this is no fiction, where all is made right in the end. This is one of those situations where the whole truth will never be known. I'm bloody well done with it."
"Right," Bradford said. He looked up, his face set, as if he also had come to a conclusion. "Sheridan, I need your advice about a matter of some consequence."
Charles turned away from the window. "If I can," he said.
' 'I spent yesterday afternoon with Perkins, the estate manager," Bradford replied, dejected. He took off his hat and flung it on the seat. "The estate has fallen into a bit of a hole." He paused. "A pit, actually. Hard to see how things are to be dug out. Rents are off disastrously-not just ours, of course. It's this agricultural depression. Foreign corn pouring in at a fraction of what we can produce it for, farmers bankrupt, farms uncultivated, tenants defaulting on their rents. And bad weather these last two years, harvests rotting in the fields."
"It seems worse here in Essex than elsewhere," Charles said as they passed an empty cottage, the thatch of its roof fallen in, the bare ribs of rafters exposed to the sky. In a neighboring field, two thin cows were making a rough living on nettles. "Some of the land looks quite derelict."
Bradford spoke with heavy gloom. ' 'There are over a dozen tenant cottages empty on the manor, barns falling in, fields uncultivated. Perkins says new farmers can't be gotten because the buildings and the roads are so decayed. We'd have to lay on at least thirty thousand pounds out of capital just to make the damned farms livable."
Charles looked at him. Coming from a family whose commercial investments had removed it from dependence on the land, he knew about the dreadful agricultural situation chiefly from reading and looking about him. The evidences of the depression were certainly everywhere-farm workers flooding the city, families dispossessed, crime on the increase. It was a desperate situation.
But as far as Marsden Manor was concerned, the solution seemed to him quite logical and obvious. "You have access to the railroad," he pointed out. "Could not the fields be converted from crops to pasture, and the enterprise from grain to dairy? The London market, I understand, is clamoring for milk and butter."
"That's what Perkins suggests. But it's doubtful the pater would do something as radical as that, even if it would keep the rotten old ship afloat." Bradford shook himself as if shaking off a burden that wasn't his. "Anyway," he added, "having given the matter a great deal of thought, I have concluded that money can no longer be earned from the land. I have therefore made-out of my own funds, left to me by Grand-mama-an investment in quite a promising venture. Through it I expect to refloat the family fortunes."
Bradford spoke with grim determination, as if by very force of will he could buoy up the family's prosperity. Behind the determination, though, Charles glimpsed something else. Anxiety, perhaps? The shuddering apprehension that the investment was not so promising as it seemed?
"If you have already made the investment," Charles remarked, "you do not require my advice." From their earlier conversation and from what he had heard the day of Tommy Milbank's visit, he thought he could guess what this venture was, and who its promoter might be. "Harry Landers, is it?"
Bradford turned. "You know of him?"
"I have heard of his British Motor Car Syndicate," Charles replied evenly. "Landers is said to be successful in selling licenses on the motorcar patents he has acquired. Unfortunately," he added, "manufacture is not likely for some time, given the restrictions on motor vehicles and the present state of their development. And, of course, manufacture is where the investors will make their money."
Charles did not look at Bradford as he spoke. Decorum forbade his asking how much his friend had invested in Landers's scheme, but it was likely to be quite a sizable sum. Charles had heard rumors that a number of wealthy peers had
been persuaded to invest heavily, one or two even mortgaging family estates to raise the necessary capital.
And no wonder. Landers-if a huckster-was eloquent in his promotion. Even more, he and others who advocated the new industry were fundamentally right about its glowing future. Staunchly as the Home Office might oppose it, and ridiculous as the idea might seem, someday everyone would have a motorized vehicle. But that day was well into the next century. If Bradford were counting on this venture to supply enough quick cash to keep the family fortunes from foundering, he was riding for a fall.
"Exactly what advice," Charles asked cautiously, "are you seeking from me?"
Bradford leaned forward. "An opportunity has arisen to make another investment," he said with a show of eagerness. "There is to be a motorcar exhibition at Tunbridge Wells early next year, which will certainly attract public attention and increase pressure on the government to relax the ridiculous laws. And I have received news just this morning-this very morning, Charles-that Landers has signed an agreement to develop several French patents. The stock will be floated under the name of the Paramount Horseless Carriage Company, for?750,000. It is a solid opportunity. Rock solid. Practically guaranteed."
"Seven hundred fifty thousand pounds!" Charles whistled. "Landers thinks in round numbers."
"Indeed," Bradford said earnestly. "My acquaintances at the Financial News say that this is the inauguration of a very great industry, which will not only prove profitable in itself, but will augment the profits of innumerable other industries. It will make the entire nation rich, Charles! What Britain has lost in its fields will be regained on its roads!"
Charles looked at Bradford with some suspicion. His friend had obviously already committed himself to Landers's grand ventures and even grander rhetoric. What then could he-? He paused, suddenly realizing what was wanted.
"Marsden," he said, "I believe it is my purse you are soliciting, rather than my advice."
Bradford had the grace to color. "I believed," he replied
somewhat stiffly, "that you might be interested in a financial venture that promises an extraordinary return."
Charles put on a regretful face. ' 'Thank you, but no. I fear that my income is not sufficient for investment in speculative ventures." Especially, he added to himself, those that he believed were fatally flawed. While Bradford's friends at the Financial Times might be bullish about Landers's enterprises, the more conservative men he knew at the magazine Engineering were already virulent on the subject, seeing Landers as a shameless, vulgar self-promoter, playing to the credulity of the investing public. He feared that his friend, to coin a phrase, was about to be taken for a ride. He did not intend to go along.
Then another thought, much more chilling, occurred to him. He had heard that Landers and his cohorts were not above using disgraceful tricks to get what they wanted. Had Bradford fallen so deeply into the man's clutches that he was required to redeem himself by soliciting others? He glanced at his friend. The question, delicate and indecorous as it was, hung on the tip of his tongue, but one look told him it would be fruitless to ask. As they turned off the road into the lane leading to Bishop's Keep, Bradford's face darkened, and his smile had vanished. He was clearly not in the mood for further confidences.