St. George and the Dragon - 3. Chapter 3: Attorney and Tailor

Charles dimly recalled some of the more dramatic landmarks as he retraced part of the prior day’s journey across the English countryside. He passed the Johnsons, Ned and Alf, already at work dragging the hired car out of the muck of the Mire. Murky water streamed from every seam. The trip to Wellton was easy in daylight, that and with Mayhew’s articulate directions. He soon found himself on the High Street, outside the solicitor’s office.

Once inside, he was greeted by Sinclair Wreston, himself. “Mr. St. George? Please come into my office. There is much to discuss. I’m sorry to hurry you along so, but we have had inquiries into purchasing your property that, I must say, are well worth considering.”

“My property?”

“Yes, you have been named the sole beneficiary in your uncle’s will. It amounts to an investment portfolio of considerable size, his house and grounds and the contents, of course. It seems the real property is situated in such a way as to be very attractive for development. My office has been approached by no fewer than three firms, each of whom have made it clear that their offers would be competitive and generous. I am familiar with these firms and consider their intentions bona fide.”

“Mr. Wreston, I’m somewhat overwhelmed. I scarcely knew my uncle and had no idea that his estate was of any real value. I suppose I came here more out of curiosity than expectation.”

“Mr. St. George, it is rare to find relatives that are not grasping following the death of someone as affluent as your uncle. As I say rare, and most refreshing. Which brings me to another point, consideration of the village.”

“The village?”

“Yes, St. George on Wear. As you must be aware, your family name is shared with the village itself. I have no idea if either was named for the other, but your uncle enjoyed the coincidence. He was very much taken to heart by the village soon after his arrival, by all accounts. Perhaps it was his honoring of rights of way through his property established in ancient times. The prospective buyers I mentioned are little interested in these traditions. I suspect, however, it was some special personal relationships he established among the locals. In any case, I would be remiss if I did not advise you that those privileges your uncle conveyed on his neighbors would likely be lost if the property were to be developed.”

“I’m not sure what to say, Mr. Wreston. I wouldn’t want to harm anyone. The village has been most welcoming, if a little strange. You, yourself show some concern for the Village.”

“It is the home of my maternal grandmother, who lives there yet. I spent time there as a boy and, indeed I am concerned for this village and things English that seem to be slipping away. My advice, then, Mr. St. George, is to consider staying a while in St. George on Wear, get to know its special charms and decide if, in consideration of the status your uncle’s estate now affords you, you could make it your home. Forgive me if I presume, but my firm has made inquiries into your current state of affairs, a precaution taken as executors of the estate, and the prospects for a young writer could be most pleasant following in your uncle’s example.”

“I’ve never considered living here, Mr. Wreston.”

“Take your time, get a feel for things. There are no pressing decisions. There are, however, some pressing court filings which I fear may require more than this afternoon to complete and do require your physical presence to conclude. May I suggest that, rather than journeying back to St. George only to have to return tomorrow, that you take advantage of the Welton’s more sophisticated hostelries, at least for the night. My office can make arrangements on your behalf and the estate will cover any costs.”

A soft knock at the door interrupted the discussion. “Mr. Wreston, I have just received an unusual communication relevant to your meeting with Mr. St. George.” Wreston nodded his consent for the clerk to continue. “It seems that Mr. St. George’s late uncle has unfinished business with his tailor who requests that the estate honor his bill. He requests that Mr. St. George call upon the proprietor at his earliest convenience.”

“Goodness, that sounds like trouble.”

“No fear, Mr. St. George. I suspect Mumby, that’s the tailor, only hopes to convert you into a customer, yourself. The estate can well absorb any outstanding charges. If you are staying overnight, you might well require some additional things to tide you over. Mumby is my own tailor and I can highly recommend his services. It would also be an opportunity to acquire some clothing more appropriate to our often inclement weather.”

Charles chuckled. “And I suspect, Mr. Wreston, that you have an interest in Mumby’s success.” Wreston joined Charles in a wry laugh.

Charles made his way along the High Street to Mumby’s Gentlemen’s Emporium. An effusive Zachary Mumby greeted him at the door. “Mr. St. George? Of course, it must be. Who, other than an American, would be so casually attired when visiting their solicitor? While we, at Mumby’s, admire independence of spirit, we do have a vested interested in maintaining propriety in all things related to appearance. We understand from Mr. Wreston, esquire, that we are in need of a few comforts for an overnight stay.” Mumby circled Charles with disdainful appraisal. “We might suggest that we also consider some additions to our wardrobe and furnishings? No doubt we made the journey hurriedly and were not able to prepare adequately.”

Charles frowned in response, not so much offended as confused by the use of the first-person plural to refer to both himself and Mumby.

Mumby ignored Charles expression. “Well, now, let’s see. We’re very much a type with your late uncle. Though prosperity had broadened his overall physique, we can readily observe that with but few alterations, your late uncle’s recently ordered clothing could be made to suit. Please step up.” Mumby indicated a small platform, then turned toward the back of the shop saying with a less refined tone, “Mr. Valenti, if you please.”

Mr. Valenti appeared, his lithe Latin features a sharp contrast to Mumby’s affectations of youth. Valenti, tape measure over his shoulders, rolling his eyes at the unctuous Mumby. In a broad, local accent, Valenti concurred with Mumby. “Yeah, mate, let out a bit in the chest and shoulders, tuck up the tum and he should be good to go, perhaps let out in the crotch some, more in there, as it were. Was this the gentleman who needed spare drawers and the lot?”

Mumby trembled over the outrage of a Valenti’s form of address. Valenti winked at Charles who shared his joy and Mumby’s discomfiture.

“We shall have your things sent with all dispatch to your accommodation, Mr. St. George,” Mumby announced, not waiting for Charles’s assent.

Charles shrugged his shoulders, realizing that he had not uttered a word, yet seemed to have ordered “wardrobe and furnishings” unknown to himself in nature or cost. He mused, “Was this what the life of the affluent was like? Smarmy and presumptive shop owners and their flirting staff and no concern over money?” He’d have to get that attitude in check.

His next stop was the modestly grand hotel done up in overly quaint yet artificial English Country style. Overly imprecise half-timbering and random suits of armor combined to give lie to any historical accuracy. Charles submitted to a too twee Shepard’s pie and ale in the ground floor pub before retiring to his room. He missed the genuine simplicity of the George and Dragon and sincerity of his new village acquaintances. Most vivid was the lack of Robby, the memory of whose suggestive touch raised Charles’s awareness of being alone far from home. Another day’s delay, he wished he could at least call Robby and explain, but he had no idea of how to contact Robby. Mayhew would know, Charles could call the pub and if not find out how to contact Robby, he could at least leave word.

The hotel operator quickly connected the call. “George and Dragon, Mayhew, proprietor speaking.”

“Mr. Mayhew, this is Charles St. George. I’m afraid I’m tied up overnight in Welton and won’t be returning until late tomorrow.”

“The law, always seems to have delays,” sympathized Mayhew. “We’ll keep your room, nonetheless, Mr. St. George.”

“Charles, please call me Charles,” he asked modestly.

“Considering you’re Mr. Jack’s relation, how about we settle on Mr. Charles, seems more respectful.”

“As you wish,” surrendered Charles. “On another matter, I was supposed to meet with Robby upon my return. I don’t know how to get word to him.”

“No fear there Mr. Charles. He came into the pub half a tick back. I’ll get him for you, hold the line.”

Charles heard the phone clunk as it was laid on the bar, then somewhat muffled, “Robby. Robby, there’s a call for you. Mr. Charles, it is.”

Scuffling noises accompanied Robby’s voice, “Step aside mates and hush up.” Then shouting over typical pub din, “Charlie? Where the hell…”

“Sorry to interrupt, Robby. It’s hard to hear you. I wanted to tell you again how much I appreciate your offer to show me around the village. I’m detained with legal stuff in Weston until tomorrow. Can you forgive me? Will you still show me around? You said you had things planned.”

Robby slammed the bar with his hand uttering an oath.

“Robby? Are you okay?” Charles inquired.

After a too long delay, “No, I’m not ‘okay’.”

“I have no right to ask it, but Mr. Wreston, the solicitor, suggested I get to know the village. You seem to be of like mind. Your offer seems the perfect way to do that.”

“Hmmmph. Well, alright then. Thursday, then. Right after breakfast. Make sure you’re rested.”

Charles pondered Robby’s response. Not making any sense of it, he replied, “I will, though it won’t be easy in this pretentious hotel. I miss the George.”

“I was hoping you were missing the ‘Dragon’,” came Robby’s mysterious reply.

“Thursday, then,” Charles echoed, “and thank you for understanding. Good night.” Charles hung up the phone, happy to have both his hands free to ease the erection that had sprung up on first hearing Robby’s voice.

***

In the pub, Robby snatched the freshly poured whiskey from the hands of the man at his right, downing it in a gulp. “Another Mayhew, and Emil will be pleased to pay.” Robby downed this too and stomped out of the pub.

The pub regulars gathered at the bar as the echo of the slammed door in Robby’s wake died away.

“What’s up with Robby? I was thinking he’d be demanding servicing tonight considering he’s not been seen all day. Missed his usual nooner.”

“I’ll be damned,” Mayhew proffered. “Mr. Charles, you know Mr. Jack’s relation? Well he just called to tell Robby he had other things to do.”

“You mean he turned Robby down?”

“For the third time,” Mayhew added with a nod.

“Naw, can’t be. No one ever told Robby ‘no’.”

“Well, he ain’t said ‘no’ exactly.”

“He’s begged off, just the same.”

“Aye, he has.”

“And instead of getting his own out of one or more of us, Robby’s just disappeared into the night. Don’t seem right, lucky for us, but don’t seem right.”

“Robby’s never gone a half day without getting his own.”

“He got more than he deserved the night before, all the same.”

“Sure enough, yet wasn’t the same Robby.”

“Felt like him to me. Damn that lad.”