Ravenscraig Read online

  Wright was instantly incensed. Willows had put him and the owner of the house through a great deal of anguish and inconvenience for nothing. The bastard.

  Percival Wright inhaled sharply and his eyebrows arched into the disappointment that came with solving the puzzle. There would be no sale here. The man was a bloody charlatan.

  “Was that a snort?” Willows asked.

  The question was completely inappropriate from one gentleman to another. Wright felt as though he had been roundly clipped with a riding crop. Deeply insulted, he responded as a schoolmaster offering a sarcastic reprimand to a youngster.

  “I beg your pardon. Please do forgive me, sir.”

  Rupert’s eyes snapped and his back stiffened. Wright read confirmation that he had gained the upper hand over the play-actor. The jig was up. He saw no need to make a scene, but he was anxious to wrap things up and unload the unusual Mr. Willows so he could get back to his office. The facts he had collected to help persuade Mrs. McDonnelly to absent herself from the premises came handily back to mind.

  “You do understand, Mr. Willows, that a house this size will take a ton of coal each day to keep warm in winter?” Wright’s anger brought haughtiness to his tone. “I assume you’ve never spent a winter here. Our climate is not for the faint of heart. Naturally, heating will be expensive. However, if one is in need of economizing, one might consider closing the west wing of the house to reduce heating costs and to cut down on the number of servants required. Now, if you will come this way we will find our way to the library.”

  Wright threw his shoulders back and marched briskly down the hall. At the library door he wheeled to face his client and slipped his watch out of his waistcoat.

  “Oh dear, half past four o’clock already? I do hope I am not keeping you, Mr. Willows.”

  Rupert seized on him, as a snake about to strike a rabbit. His words were cold, quiet and devastating. “Don’t be cheeky, Mr. Wright. There are plenty of finance men in the city who can handle the simple sale of a property. I chose you to show me Ravenscraig because of your mediocre level of success. I don’t want my business getting about, and it is quite obvious that you do not travel in the circles that concern me.”

  Wright flushed as he pushed his sweaty palm against the library door. The rebuke hung in the air, like the smell of smoke that lingers after a pistol shot. He steadied himself against a marble side table as his wits raced to catch up with his emotions. He had completely misread the man. Willows was a serious buyer after all. With shame and relief colliding in his brain, Wright’s mouth broke free like a runaway colt.

  “Please do accept my apology, Mr. Willows. I certainly mean no disrespect. You see, I haven’t been feeling quite like myself, and I don’t think so clearly at times. It’s the missus, you see. She is quite unhappy with me and I am afraid she might want to leave me, and I find I get so distracted I just can’t think. Oh, I care for her so much. You see, I just—”

  “Shut up, Mr. Wright. You sound like a scared schoolgirl. Sit down and get hold of yourself.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Wright slid into a chair and listened to the silence until the sound of his own heartbeat started to thud in his ears. His cheeks flushed with heat and his jaw pulsed. Eventually, a kind of delirious giddiness seeped through him in the same way it does a coward who has emerged from a gunfight and come to realize he is not bleeding. He pressed his handkerchief to his brow and prayed he had not sweated through his good jacket. What a day. How excruciatingly embarrassed he felt.

  Meanwhile, Mr. Willows, it seemed, was completely unaffected by their exchange. Wright watched him as his gaze moved slowly and intently about the room. There seemed something akin to reverence in his attitude as he examined the many fine furnishings. Whoever this man was, he was most assuredly rich and powerful and it appeared he might well intend to be the new owner of Ravenscraig Hall. Wright thanked his lucky stars that he was still in the game.

  The library had captivated Rupert Willows. Every detail and design choice was to be admired. The afternoon light streamed into the room through three oversized windows that rose to the ceiling. Set deeply, they were draped in heavy red and gold fabrics, each framing a tranquil view of the gardens and the river beyond them. Gaslight sconces were precisely aligned on the mahogany walls to draw attention to an impressive collection of paintings. Leather-bound books stood in perfect rows behind beveled glass doors. The room positively smelled of success.

  The focal point was a large, conspicuously expensive desk that had been placed to take advantage of the natural light. Rupert ran his hand along its edge as if to absorb its richness.

  He had ached to possess a library like this, to live in a mansion as grand as this. As the owner of Ravenscraig Hall, he would immediately be recognized as a man of importance. The rest that he wanted would come in time.

  What Rupert Willows had so effectively concealed from the balding and battered Mr. Wright was that he actually was a charlatan. Even his wife did not know that he had completely rewritten his history to lock away the shame and cruelty he had borne as a boy on a dirt-poor farm in Ontario. Moving up to a mansion as fine as Ravenscraig would be the final step in burying the truth. No one would ever know that Rupert Willows had come into the world as Reuben Volinsky, the son of a hard-drinking immigrant from Russia.

  Rupert was blessed with ambition, a brilliant mind, and a wicked talent for persuasion. By most standards, he appeared to have done all right for himself in Winnipeg. The public perception, carefully fueled, was that his construction business had taken off when he moved his family to Winnipeg during the land boom of the 1880s. It was a believable tale of embellished facts and outright fiction. Rupert had worked hard and earned success in business, but it never would have happened without his having married a wealthy woman.

  His life was now solidly upper middle class. His construction company was profitable and growing, and he lived in a handsome, fourteen-room home on Broadway. He and his wife traveled, attended theater regularly, and were occasionally invited to dine with people in the better class. Despite all that, Rupert remained terribly frustrated, for what Rupert craved most was power. He wanted to turn polite smiles at his remarks into a driving interest in his opinions.

  Ravenscraig would make that possible.

  Residing in an impressive home and hosting lavish parties were essential steps to gaining acceptance among those in the tight circle influence brokers who were at the centre of everything that moved in the city. These were the men who ruled Winnipeg, planned its developments and wrote its history, all the while becoming richer and more powerful with every decision they made. Winnipeg existed for their betterment and the rest of the population benefitted from their determination to grow the city. It was the foundation of Winnipeg’s outstanding success.

  Old money, prestigious educations, and blood connections to men of importance were the standard entry requirements to this group that was officially recognized as the Winnipeg Board of Trade. A select few among them were self-made men like James Ashdown, a successful tradesman who had come early into the game. Catholics were not welcomed, and Jews were shunned outright. Rupert knew all the rules and had spent years preparing to step up to be recognized. Though he had ached for it, no invitation had come to sit on the right committees, or to become a member of the Manitoba Club. Stuck in the middle class, he remained almost invisible. But that was about to change. The way the city was growing, the men of power had shown a willingness to open their doors to overnight millionaires, provided of course, that they were Protestant.

  As he drank in the tasteful decor, Rupert felt himself being seduced by the fragrance of leather and freshly polished wood. He could see himself working here. He could see men of authority reaching over the desk to shake his hand, and then accepting an offer to sit together with brandy and cigars to discuss business opportunities. He could hear their compliments and their hearty laughter at his clever jokes.

  At long last, the right circ
umstances were upon him to make buying an extravagant home possible. Not only had he just won a substantial building contract, but he had also received an unexpected windfall. He was dreadfully sorry about the recent passing of his wife’s father in Montreal, but utterly delighted with the resulting inheritance being placed in his hands at such an opportune time. The check had arrived on the very day that the newspapers reported the death of Dr. McDonnelly. He viewed this as a fated occurrence, and his decision to explore his opportunity to buy Ravenscraig was made instantly. He immediately scheduled a meeting with the one person he knew would have all of the information he needed.

  Her name was Minnie Woods and she was a prostitute. In fact, she was proud to be known in the press as “Queen of the Harlots.” Rupert’s friendship with her over the years had proven most valuable. It was through Minnie that he gained his information about the secret lives of the commercial elite. It was because of her that he knew who was building, who was investing, and who was bringing new business links to Winnipeg. He knew their connections to Toronto, New York, and Chicago. He learned who the up-and-comers were in the new western cities of Edmonton and Calgary long before the names and deals became common knowledge. And he learned a great deal about the members of the Board of Trade.

  As he expected, Minnie was ever so delighted to share stories about the affairs of Dr. McDonnelly and his new mansion. The fees were a little pricey, but her information was always solid, and as Rupert was so fond of telling Minnie, it truly was a pleasure doing business with her.

  Rupert stood tall and clasped his hands behind his back in the manner he had seen demonstrated by the Prince of Wales in newspaper photographs. Carrying himself in this way, he moved forward across the thick carpet and then slowly walked the perimeter of the grand library, taking his time as he envisioned his future. Perhaps next year he would be able to run for City Council. Alderman Willows. He could already see that 1896 was going to be a wonderful year.

  With Ravenscraig, he would simply buy his way into the elite class in the way a high stakes poker game accepts a player with enough cash to sit at the table.

  Rupert moved closer to the far wall of the library, so as to appear to the agent to be appraising the artwork. In truth, he knew almost nothing about art, but he was determined that this Wright fellow would be able to tell people that Mr. Willows was a man of culture as well as of business acumen. He stopped in front of a colorful painting of a scene in a garden. He liked the overall impression but thought the artist rather sloppy in his lack of crisp lines and detail. Still, by the fine character of the frame, Rupert knew it to be what he termed “gallery quality” art. He leaned in to discreetly catch the artist’s name and instantly had a new game to test the agent’s nerves. Rupert so enjoyed these opportunities to separate himself from the common class.

  “Not one of Monet’s better pieces, but rather impressive in the use of light, don’t you agree?” he ventured to Wright.

  “Oh, I’m sure I wouldn’t know one artist from another, Mr. Willows,” answered the now thoroughly humbled Mr. Wright, searching the painting over his spectacles.

  “I see,” Rupert smiled. He turned to face him and stood silently examining Wright as if he had him on a skewer. Finally, Wright started to twitch and Rupert released him. “Well, then,” he said, “tell me about the plumbing. There are five water closets with bathtubs?”

  “Seven, sir,” Wright sputtered. “Each has been fitted with both bathtub and shower-bath. As you will see when we go upstairs, the utmost care has been taken in providing the most modern conveniences.”

  “And on this floor?”

  “There are four smaller water closets on the main floor. The servants, of course, have their own very modern facilities, as well.”

  “Splendid,” remarked Rupert. “Are all of these amenities connected to the city sewer system, or is that an expense that will fall to the new owner to bear?”

  “That is a very astute question, Mr. Willows,” Wright said, having gathered his wits. “Few buyers have done the research you have done.”

  “It pays to be thorough, Mr. Wright. The city can’t possibly get sewers installed as quickly as the need is arising.”

  “Indeed, sir. Not with the current pace of growth. I promise you the plumbing will not be a problem.” Wright shuffled through his paperwork to find the documentation he needed. “Ah, here it is, Mr. Willows. The sewage removal from Ravenscraig has nothing to do with the city sewers,” he said, tapping the paper in front of him. “You see, all of the pipes in the house are set to drain directly into the Assiniboine River. It is ideal.”

  “Excellent.” Rupert came around to examine the blueprints.

  Wright hesitated a moment, still flinching from the earlier rebuke. He hated to do it, but felt it imperative that the matter of the death of Dr. McDonnelly be discussed. He could not afford another explosive clash with Mr. Willows who may well be waiting for him to say something about it. He cleared his throat and then spoke as if telling a secret.

  “The owner had taken care of all of that as he did intend to have every comfort, as you can see. It’s very unfortunate that he didn’t have a chance to enjoy the home.”

  “Yes, quite.” Rupert saw no need to pretend sympathy and was now anxious to see the rooms upstairs. “And his widow? Will she stay on in Winnipeg?”

  “No,” Wright grimaced. He still felt guilty for shamelessly pushing her to make her plans. “It is my understanding that she will be moving to San Francisco to be with her daughter and grandchildren.”

  The tour of the rest of the home pleased Rupert greatly, and he peppered the agent with questions about the most minute aspects of the property.

  Wright was, by this time, completely confused by the chatty and engaging manner of his client. Mr. Willows was utterly charismatic. How this could be the same man as in the first part of their meeting was quite astonishing. He would have such a story to tell his Mildred at supper.

  Rupert was also tallying expenses while gathering details from his realtor. It was true enough that the cost of Ravenscraig and running it would come close to emptying his bank account, even with the inheritance, but he was well accustomed to risk and simply believed that there was always more money to be made.

  Percival Wright could smell the sale. By the time they returned to the library, he was certain he could move his client toward a commitment.

  “I expect you will want to make arrangements to bring Mrs. Willows to see the property,” he said with just a touch of zeal.

  “No. That won’t be necessary.” Rupert’s face was devoid of emotion.

  “Oh.” Wright was taken aback. “I rather thought you were considering making an offer on the house.”

  “No. No offer.” Rupert moved toward the desk in the library as he enjoyed the perplexed look on the agent’s face. He suppressed an urge to laugh as beads of sweat again began to appear on Wright’s brow. The man was so easy to manipulate. Rupert sat down at the desk and reached into his breast pocket whereupon he pulled out a small leather folder and flipped it open. He reached for the pen on the desk and dipped it into the inkwell as if he had sat at the desk a thousand times before.

  “Instead I am offering payment,” he announced evenly. “Here is a check for what I am willing to spend to acquire Ravenscraig. I’m sure you will be able to satisfy the Widow McDonnelly with this amount. If not, well, good luck with finding your buyer.”

  When he saw the figure, Wright was tempted to whistle, but fortunately could not manage it because his mouth had gone dry and dropped open. He sat down and stared at the check.

  “That will cover the cost of all of the furnishings, of course,” Rupert explained. “The check is made payable to your company so that you can keep my name concealed.” He leaned across the desk and fixed his gaze on the realtor. “Now listen to me, Wright, because this is crucial. This sale must be kept an absolute secret. No one is to know that anyone other than an anonymous buyer has purchased the property for an und
isclosed amount, paid in cash. In fact, I require that you say that very sentence each and every time you are asked about Ravenscraig Hall. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir.” Wright pulled himself from his daze and found his voice. “Very clear.”

  “And I will tell you most emphatically, that if one word of this purchase reaches my wife before I tell her myself, three to four months from now, the sale will be void. I will hold you personally responsible. We will write that into the contract,” Rupert stated. With the deal in place, he was anxious to be on his way. “I will be prepared to take the house over this fall. That should give Mrs. McDonnelly adequate time to make her arrangements.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “There are other details that will have to be worked out, regarding household staff, the possessions Mrs. McDonelly wishes to keep and so on. To this end, if you would consider it, I would like to engage your services, Mr. Wright, to represent my interests until I move into Ravenscraig.”

  “Yes, certainly, Mr. Willows.” Wright felt queasy.

  Rupert was suddenly on his feet. “Very well, then. Other than setting a time for our next meeting, our business today has concluded.”

  Wright bit his tongue against the questions swirling through his mind, all of which he sensed would be disastrous to ask. Chief among them: how could it be possible that the figure on the check was the exact amount that Mrs. McDonnelly had determined to be her selling price? It was as if Willows had been told it in advance.

  Rupert stood before the mirror of the front hall and took his time adjusting the angle of his hat. He looked past his own image into the reflection of the bedraggled Wright standing behind him. The agent appeared worn and soggy from the sport, and Rupert was disappointed he had fallen out of the game so quickly. The only thing left was to satisfy his curiosity.