A Prisoner of Birth Read online

‘Could you give me a rough estimate, perhaps?’ asked Danny hopefully.

  ‘If the envelope was purchased by a dealer, two thousand two hundred to two thousand five hundred would be my guess; by a keen collector, perhaps as much as three thousand. But should two collectors want it badly enough, who can say? Allow me to give you an example, Sir Nicholas. Last year an oil painting entitled A Vision of Fiammetta by Dante Gabriel Rossetti came under the hammer here at Sotheby’s. We put an estimate on it of two and a half to three million pounds, which was certainly at the high end of the market, and, indeed, all the well-known dealers had fallen out some time before it reached the high estimate. However, because Andrew Lloyd Webber and Elizabeth Rothschild both wanted to add the picture to their collections, the hammer came down for the final time at nine million pounds, more than double the previous record for a Rossetti.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that my envelope might sell for more than double its valuation?’

  ‘No, Sir Nicholas, I am simply saying that I have no idea how much it might sell for.’

  ‘But can you make sure that Andrew Lloyd Webber and Elizabeth Rothschild turn up for the sale?’ asked Danny.

  Blundell lowered his head, fearing Sir Nicholas might see that he was amused by such a suggestion. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I have no reason to believe that either Lord Lloyd Webber or Elizabeth Rothschild has any interest in stamps. However, if you decide to put your envelope into our next sale, it would be featured in the catalogue, and sent to all the leading collectors in the world.’

  ‘And when will your next stamp sale be?’ asked Danny.

  ‘September the sixteenth,’ replied Blundell. ‘Just over six weeks’ time.’

  ‘That long?’ said Danny, who had assumed that they would be able to sell his envelope within a few days.

  ‘We are still preparing the catalogue, and will be mailing it to all our clients at least two weeks prior to the sale.’

  Danny thought back to his meeting with Mr Prendergast at Stanley Gibbons, who had offered him £2,200 for the envelope, and probably would have gone as high as £2,500. If he accepted his offer he wouldn’t have to wait for another six weeks. Nick’s latest bank statement showed that he only had £1,918, so he might well be overdrawn by September 16th with still no prospect of any further income.

  Blundell did not hurry Sir Nicholas, who was clearly giving the matter his serious consideration, and if he was the grandson of . . . this could be the beginning of a long and fruitful relationship.

  Danny knew which of the two options Nick would have settled for. He would have accepted the original offer of £2,000 from Mr Prendergast, walked back to Coutts and banked the money immediately. That helped Danny come to a decision. He picked up the envelope, handed it to Mr Blundell and said, ‘I’ll leave you to find the two people who want my envelope.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ said Blundell. ‘Nearer the time, Sir Nicholas, I’ll see that you are sent a catalogue, along with an invitation to the sale. And may I add how much I always enjoyed assisting your grandfather in the building of his magnificent collection.’

  ‘His magnificent collection?’ repeated Danny.

  ‘Should you wish to add to that collection, or indeed to sell any part of it, I would be only too happy to offer my services.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Danny. ‘I may well be in touch.’ He left Sotheby’s without another word – he couldn’t risk asking Mr Blundell questions to which he himself would be expected to know the answers. But how else was he going to find out about Sir Alexander’s magnificent collection?

  No sooner was Danny back out on Bond Street than he wished he had accepted Prendergast’s original offer, because even if the envelope raised as much as six thousand, it still wouldn’t be nearly enough to cover the costs of a prolonged legal battle with Hugo Moncrieff, and if he were to settle the writ before the expenses ran out of control, he’d still have enough money to survive on for a few more weeks while he looked for a job. But unfortunately, Sir Nicholas Moncrieff was not qualified to work as an East End garage mechanic; in fact, Danny was beginning to wonder what he was qualified to do.

  Danny strolled on up Bond Street and into Piccadilly. He thought about the significance, if any, of Blundell’s words ‘your grandfather’s magnificent collection’. He didn’t notice that someone was following him. But then, he was a professional.

  Hugo picked up the phone.

  ‘He’s just left Sotheby’s and he’s standing at a bus stop in Piccadilly.’

  ‘So he must be running out of funds,’ said Hugo. ‘Why did he go to Sotheby’s?’

  ‘He left an envelope with a Mr Blundell, the head of the philatelic department. It will come up for auction in six weeks’ time.’

  ‘What was on the envelope?’ asked Hugo.

  ‘A stamp issued to mark the first modern Olympics, which Blundell estimated to be worth between two and two and a half thousand.’

  ‘When’s the sale?’

  ‘September sixteenth.’

  ‘Then I’ll have to be there,’ said Hugo, putting down the phone.

  ‘How unlike your father to allow one of his stamps to be put up for sale. Unless . . .’ said Margaret as she folded her napkin.

  ‘I’m not following you, old gal. Unless what?’ said Hugo.

  ‘Your father devotes his life to putting together one of the world’s finest stamp collections, which not only disappears on the day he dies, but isn’t even mentioned in his will. But what is mentioned are a key and an envelope, which he leaves to Nick.’

  ‘I’m still not sure what you’re getting at, old gal?’

  ‘The key and the envelope are clearly connected in some way,’ said Margaret.

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Because I don’t believe the stamp is of any importance.’

  ‘But two thousand pounds would be a great deal of money to Nick at the present time.’

  ‘But not to your father. I suspect that the name and address on the envelope are far more important, because they will lead us to the collection.’

  ‘But we still won’t have the key,’ said Hugo.

  ‘The key will be of little importance if you can prove that you are the rightful heir to the Moncrieff fortune.’

  Danny jumped on a bus for Notting Hill Gate, hoping he’d be in time for the monthly meeting with his probation officer. Another ten minutes and he would have had to take a cab. Ms Bennett had written to say that something of importance had come up. Those words made him nervous, though Danny knew that if they had found out who he really was, he wouldn’t have been informed by a letter from his probation officer, but would have woken in the middle of the night to find the house surrounded by police.

  Although he was becoming more and more confident with his new persona, not a day passed when he wasn’t reminded that he was an escaped prisoner. Anything could give him away: a second glance, a misunderstood remark, a casual question to which he didn’t know the answer. Who was your housemaster at Loretto? Which college were you in at Sandhurst? Which rugby team do you support?

  Two men stepped off the bus when it came to a halt in Notting Hill Gate. One of them began to jog towards the local probation office; the other followed close behind, but didn’t enter the building. Although Danny checked in at reception with a couple of minutes to spare, he still had to wait for another twenty minutes before Ms Bennett was free to see him.

  Danny entered a small, sparse office that contained only one table and two chairs, no curtains, and a threadbare carpet that would have been left orphaned at a car-boot sale. It wasn’t much of an improvement on his cell at Belmarsh.

  ‘How are you, Moncrieff?’ asked Ms Bennett as he sat down in the plastic chair opposite her. No ‘Sir Nicholas’, no ‘sir’, just ‘Moncrieff ’.

  Behave like Nick, think like Danny. ‘I’m well, thank you, Ms Bennett. And you?’

  She didn’t reply, simply opened a file in front of her that revealed a list of questions that had t