Meanwhile, at the Dernstrum Institute

  MEANWHILE, AT THE

  DERNSTRUM INSTITUTE

  Catherine Griffin

  © Copyright Catherine Griffin 2015. All rights reserved.

  The places, people, and events depicted in this book are for the most part entirely fictional. The Pedomotor is real, but was not invented by Joseph Wright.

  CHAPTER ONE

  FATHER DIED IN October, 1922. The doctor said pneumonia, but I blamed the Pedomotor and a broken heart. Dreams can be fatal sometimes.

  In January, desperation sent me to the offices of Bentley and Mayweed, Solicitors, where I presented myself, shivering, before the clerk.

  'Miss Wright, for Mr Bentley.'

  The young man's red-rimmed eyes assessed my thin coat and the newspaper clutched under my arm. 'He's engaged. Do you mind waiting?'

  I didn't mind, so I settled on a hard wooden chair and waited. The clerk’s pen scratched over a document. Voices murmured behind the closed door of Bentley’s office. The small stove in the corner contributed more smoke than heat to the air, failing to dry my damp skirts. A queasy knot in my stomach reminded me of the breakfast I hadn’t had.

  To distract myself, I studied the room’s sole picture. The title was ‘The Law Succouring Widows and Orphans’. It must have been an allegory, because there were cherubs. One of them looked remarkably like Bentley, which I took as a good omen, since I was an orphan and in need of succour.

  The clerk coughed. ‘Sorry about the wait. I’m sure…’ He broke off, frowning at the sound of raised voices from the office.

  The words were indistinct but the argument was growing louder. With a bang that made us both jump, the office door flew open. A tall, grey-headed man took two jerky strides into the room. He glared at me, his lip curling with contempt. The crags and hollows of his lean face might have been hewn from granite by inexpert hands. Dismissing me from notice, he swung back to confront Bentley.

  ‘You'll regret this, you will, you and your precious Institute.’ His voice was louder than necessary in the small office.

  Bentley shook his head. ‘Mr Jones, applications for Institute funding are closed for the year. You are welcome to apply again next year.’

  Jones stabbed the air with his finger. 'Ten years I've been working on Jones’ Waterproof Adhesive Tape. Ten years. My wife left me, my health is ruined.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, but I can’t…’

  ‘You're a fool like all the rest. I’ll show you.’ With a parting scowl, he stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

  Bentley sighed. ‘Poor fool. Saunders!’

  The young clerk jumped to attention.

  ‘How many times have I told you not to let anyone in without an appointment?’

  ‘I'm sorry sir, he was most insistent.’

  ‘It's the insistent ones you need to keep out. Do try harder in future, please.’ Bentley blinked at me. ‘Constance, my dear, sorry to keep you waiting.’

  I got to my feet. 'Does this sort of thing happen often?'

  ‘Only once a week or so.’ Bentley ushered me into the office. ‘Saunders, make yourself useful and fetch some tea, will you?’

  I sank into the visitor's chair, wrapped in the comforting smell of tobacco, old leather, and older books. Towers of paper covered Bentley’s desk. The space between the piles was jammed with letters, opened and unopened, written in red, green, and purple ink, featuring stains of tea, oil, and possibly blood. One thick document near me, hand-written in green ink, had the title 'Proposal to Send an Expedition to the Centre of the Earth'. Curious, I tried to read upside-down some of the other papers. 'Device to Save Victims of Drowning by the Application of Centrifugal Force' had an especially intriguing diagram.

  Bentley coughed. ‘I’m pleased to see you, but a little surprised. There’s nothing to be done about your father’s estate. Even waiving my fees, there simply isn’t any money left.’

  ‘I know. It was on another matter I wanted to see you.’ I unfolded the newspaper, showing him the advert circled in pencil. ‘Scientific Institute seeks Experienced Secretary. Applications to Bentley and Mayweed, Solicitors.’

  ‘Ah.’ Bentley leaned back in his chair.

  ‘You know my financial situation. I need a job.’ I’d applied for several, and been rejected. Unsurprising, since I had no experience and no qualifications. The only thing I could do really well was drive, so I’d scraped together money to advertise in the paper offering my services as a chauffeur. No one had replied.

  ‘Ah. But you aren’t an experienced secretary. Are you?’

  ‘I handled all Father’s letters and accounts.’ Mostly throwing out the unpaid bills. ‘And I learn quickly. Do you have other candidates?’

  ‘Not as such, but I really don’t think it’s appropriate.’

  I straightened in my chair. ‘Why not? Lots of young women do office work these days. It’s perfectly respectable. There’s even a lady solicitor now.’

  He grimaced. ‘That’s as maybe. But the Institute is in the country. Very remote.’

  Bentley’s idea of remote was any place further than Brighton. ‘Splendid. I love the countryside.’ I had never been to the countryside, but it sounded pleasant enough in books.

  ‘You are rather young, and there are unmarried men...’

  ‘I dare say I can control myself if they can.’ I folded my hands in prayer. ‘Please give me a chance. Surely you don’t want to see me destitute?’

  He squirmed. ‘Do you think your father would approve?’

  Rightly or wrongly, Father had blamed all our misfortunes on Dernstrum. If he was alive, he wouldn’t have wanted me to work at the Institute. But both he and Professor Dernstrum were dead, and as far as I was concerned, their enmity had died with them. Besides, I really needed a job.

  ‘Father isn’t here to give his opinion. I don’t think he’d want me to starve, though.’

  ‘My dear girl, of course I’m happy to help you in any way I can.’

  ‘I can have the job?’ I bounced out of my seat and kissed his bald head soundly. ‘Thank you! You won’t regret it.’

  ‘I’m still not sure it’s a good idea. Matters at the Institute may not be entirely straightforward.’

  He got to his feet and paced towards the fireplace. ‘As a trustee, I'm responsible for ensuring that the Institute is run honestly, but the Director handles the day-to-day business. The accounts I get from him are increasingly disorganised. He’s been unwell, he says. I can't believe anything untoward is going on, but I’d like someone there I can rely on. Someone who reports to me directly.’

  ‘You can rely on me. I’m very dependable.’

  He didn’t look convinced. His hands patted his pockets automatically.

  ‘Your pipe’s on the mantle.’ It was tucked behind the clock.

  ‘Thank you.’ He went through the ritual of pipe filling and lighting without looking at me.

  I had a job. Everything would be all right. Nothing at the Institute could be worse than my current prospects. Bentley was probably fussing over nothing, anyway. Would it be rude to ask for an advance on my wages?

  ‘There’s something else I’ve been meaning to discuss with you.’ He opened the desk drawer, and after a short search pulled out a white envelope. ‘Did your father ever tell you the cause of his falling out with the Professor?’

  I shook my head. Father had always refused to talk about it.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Bentley said to himself. He frowned, his forehead corrugated with deep wrinkles.

  Abruptly, he thrust the letter into my hands. It was addressed ‘Constance Wright’ in a clear, angular script. From the thickness, there were several pages inside.
<
br />   ‘The Professor sent me this, telling me to give it to you after his death. I must apologise for not doing so. I thought it was best, but you’re a grown woman now. I shouldn’t keep this from you.’

  A letter from Professor Dernstrum. How odd. Though he was my godfather, I’d hadn’t seen him since I was ten years old, when an argument with my father ended their friendship and business partnership at a stroke. Could he have left me any money? He had been wealthy enough to spare some for me, but it hardly seemed likely.

  I tore the envelope open.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE TRAIN STEAMED onward. Beyond the carriage window, farmsteads punctuated green fields patched with white where stubborn remnants of snow sparkled in the weak sunshine.

  Rocked by the gentle motion, I dozed in my seat. I had the compartment to myself, and having risen early after a restless night, the monotony of the journey was lulling me to sleep. A slim volume entitled ‘Introduction to Secretarial Work for Ladies’ lay idle in my hands. Sandwiched into its pages as a bookmark was the letter from my godfather. I had read it many times in the fortnight since I’d received it, but it still made little sense.

  Dear Constance,

  I am writing you this letter to read after my passing. Langstone tells me my heart will not last for many years, or even months. I do not fear death. My only regrets are the work I must leave unfinished, and you. I don’t know if your father ever told you why we fell out. If he did, I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me. Know at least that I fondly remember you.

  My wealth I leave to the Dernstrum Institute. For you, there is much I have hidden, much I could reveal. But the bones of the past should remain buried, far from the heat and light of day.

  Of you I ask only that you visit my grave. Also, please give the enclosed pamphlet to my old friend Reginald Musgrave, who you will recall. I think he would be interested in the church here, which is very quaint.

  — Dernstrum.

  The Professor’s small, precise writing crammed the top of the page, leaving the lower half blank. With it in the envelope had been a poorly printed pamphlet, titled ‘The History of the Church in Uggley-on-Sea, with reflections on the pagan religions of the area’ by the Reverend P.N. Templeton.

  The reference to the argument between the Professor and Father only raised questions I couldn’t answer. The mention of Musgrave made no sense at all. I didn’t recognise the name, and why should I? I had been a child when I last saw the Professor.

  With a start, I jolted into wakefulness, realising simultaneously that I had been dozing and also that the train had stopped. I wiped condensation from the window with my gloved hand, trying to see the station name through the fog of steam.

  Bridgwater. My stop.

  I waited on the platform beside my trunk while passengers embarked and disembarked around me. Someone, I had been told, would meet me.

  The platform emptied and the guard whistled. Steam engulfed me as the green locomotive chuffed away. I waited. And waited. And began to think I’d been forgotten, like a piece of lost luggage.

  If no one came for me, what then? Should I try to get to the Institute by myself? There was no point returning to London now. The house and everything in it had been sold to pay off Father’s debts. All my worldly possessions were in two small bags and the trunk.

  Since the meeting with Bentley, I’d been busy disposing of the last of Father’s worldly goods, too busy to worry much about my own prospects. The job at the Institute meant a roof over my head, three meals a day, and a small wage. More than enough to make me happy, I thought. But now I was journeying into the unknown and anxiety gnawed at my insides. Maybe I’d be better off as abandoned luggage.

  A man swaddled in a long driving coat, scarf and cap appeared from the ticket hall. We looked at each other expectantly.

  ‘Excuse me, are you Miss Wright?’ His voice was light and breathy. He pulled down his scarf to reveal a boyish face, blue eyes, and an attempted ginger moustache.

  ‘Yes. Are you from the Institute?’

  'Hack.' He grinned, showing too many teeth. ‘Let me take your trunk. The car’s this way.’

  The car proved to be a blue Morris Oxford four-seat tourer. I looked it over while Hack loaded my trunk and bags.

  'What a beautiful car.'

  Hack handed me into the passenger seat. The interior was a good deal cleaner than the outside, smelling agreeably of leather. ‘Can’t take any credit for it. Borrowed from a friend. I’m not a great driver, I’m afraid.’

  The car purred through the town and on into the narrow country roads.

  He produced a packet of Potter’s Asthma Cigarettes from his coat pocket. ‘You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?’

  ‘No, not at all. You work at the Institute?'

  'Just started.'

  ‘What do you do?’

  He glanced at me, then to my relief returned to his attention to the road. ‘I’m researching the continuance of the human soul after death.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to upset you. Has a loved one departed recently?’

  ‘I’m not upset, only… ’ I grabbed the dashboard as the car rounded a bend. ‘… surprised. My father died last year.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Watch out!’

  Hack swerved to avoid a horse and cart, sending the animal into hysterics.

  ‘I don’t personally wish to discover whether there is life after death, Mr Hack. Not just yet, any way.’

  He flashed his toothy smile at me. ‘Sorry. Frightened myself there.’

  The pace of the car slowed, to my relief. I took some deep breaths. ‘So you haven’t been at the Institute long?’

  ‘Only a day. Haven’t even met the Director yet. Indisposed, apparently. Last night the housekeeper informed us you were coming, and would anyone be so good as to collect you? All rather shoddy, I thought. Anyway, I volunteered. Didn’t like to think of you abandoned at the train station.’

  ‘Well, thanks. I’m very grateful.’

  As we navigated a winding, narrow street through a village, the engine coughed and sputtered.

  'Bother,' Hack said. 'Dratted machines always go wrong for me.'

  There was a pronounced smell of burning petrol. The car jerked to a halt outside a butcher’s shop.

  'This is dashed inconvenient.' Hack glared at the dead pig in the shop window.

  'It's most likely a blockage in the fuel line,' I said.

  He frowned at me. 'You know about these things, do you?'

  'Yes. A little. I'll have a look, shall I?' Not waiting for an answer, I got out.

  Accompanied by the curious butcher, his son, and a Jack Russell terrier, I looked over the engine. Hack got out of the car and joined me, his breath steaming in the cold air. He coughed.

  'Can you try starting the engine, please?' As I had thought, petrol wasn't reaching the spark plugs. There must be a blockage in the carburetor. 'Are there any tools?'

  'I don't know.' He rocked on his heels, hands deep in pockets. 'I'll look in the back.'

  A few moments later he returned with a bag of tools. 'Any use?'

  I would have preferred to work without him watching over my shoulder and blocking the light, but it was simple enough to take the carburetor apart, clear the jets, and reassemble it.

  'Try to start the engine now.'

  The motor burst into confident life. I felt a warm glow of satisfaction at my handiwork, though my gloves were oil-stained and probably ruined. At least they weren’t new ones. The outfits I’d bought with Bentley’s advance were safely packed away in my trunk.

  'Well I’ll be blowed. You’re a marvel.' Hack patted the steering wheel. 'I thought we’d be stranded for hours.'

  'It was really very simple.' I joined him in the car.

  'Simple to you, perhaps. How do you know so much about motors?'

  The car smoothly pulled away, leaving the butcher and his family behind.

  I
flushed. 'I used to drive my father’s car. It was always breaking down. Do we have far to go?'

  'We should reach the causeway soon. It's just as well you could fix the car so quickly. If we missed this tide, we’d be stuck till the evening.'

  'Causeway?'

  'The village is cut off at high tide. You didn't know?'

  I had tried to find the curiously named village of Uggley-on-Sea on the map, but had only found Upper Uggley and Little Uggley dotted on the Somerset coast.

  ‘Uggley’s a funny little place,’ he said. ‘Picturesque, if you like that kind of thing. You come from London, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where did you work before?’

  ‘Um. Various places.’

  My vague answer drew a curious glance. I looked out of the window. The wind smelt of the sea already, reminding me of childhood trips to the seaside. Just as then, I stared out at the passing hedges, searching for the first glimpse of blue.

  The car crested a hill and there, at last, was the sea. Not blue and sparkling in the summer sun like the sea at Brighton, but muddy brown under a leaden sky, more like the Thames. Below us lay a patchwork of hedged fields divided by a brown river. Where the river flowed into the sea, a curve of green land projected out into the Channel, connected to the mainland by a thin grey thread of road.

  ‘That’s Uggley,’ Hack said.

  Rain pattered on the windscreen. I huddled in my seat. High hedges closed in around us, shutting out the view as we descended.

  The green pasture gave way to mud dotted with slimy rocks and driftwood. Hack slowed down and pointed out the sign: 'Uggley-on-Sea. 1/2 mile. Danger! Cross only at low tide.'

  'Don't worry. There's plenty of time to get across.'

  'Is this the only road?'

  'Yes. The village is cut off for several hours a day, more when the weather's bad.'

  The car trundled ahead on the causeway. Water lapped at the steep sides of the embankment. The track allowed no room for another vehicle to pass, should one appear. Rain fell steadily. Hack crouched over the wheel with the stub of a cigarette between his fingers, peering through the windscreen.