Strictly speaking the Forbeses inhabited a draughty first‑floor flat in a converted corner of the stable block, but at a very early age young John, the housekeeper’s son, would say: ‘Can you deliver? The name’s Forbes, Cerne Estate,’ he would say imperiously as his mother parted with her labouriously acquired savings for a new winter coat or length of serge or tweed from which she would sew a two‑piece for herself. May Forbes prided herself on her sewing and John had too much affection for her to tell her that next to Lady Carven’s understated couture or her daughter’s smocked, pintucked and immaculately laundered Liberty print dresses, May’s own looked dowdy and provincial.
There were a lot of things he could not bring himself to tell his mother. Such as that he knew she was lying when she stoutly maintained to him that his father was working abroad ‘to make enough money to buy us all a lovely new house, darling’.
The only child of elderly and indulgent parents, who lived quietly on a fixed income in nearby Cerne Abbas, Stanley Forbes had run through most of their savings by the time he met and seduced May, then a student teacher. With a child on the way he was forced to marry her but sent her off to his parents’ to live, rather than have her set up house near the barracks as other, wealthier wives did. The war was good to Stanley. He served with distinction, returning a hero with a DFC and a voice he could never quite learn to lower from its habitual tone of command.
The Earl of Cerne Abbas, Archibald Carven, who had been in the same regiment and had known Stanley all his life, gave him a position in the Cerne Estate Office. It was a well‑intentioned but ultimately disastrous offer. Unable to adjust to peacetime living, where instead of being Lord Carven’s comrade‑in‑arms he was his paid employee, living in tied accommodation, Stanley turned to gambling and drink. There were even rumours about discrepancies in the Estate accounts. The truth of this was kept from John, but after his father had ‘gone to Rhodesia to make our fortune’, which was his mother’s version of events, or ‘run off with that there Doris Dunn from the Cat and Fiddle’, according to the servants of the big house, he and his mother were left in dire straits. Stanley’s parents had died virtually penniless and her own had long since disowned May. Lord Carven took pity on her and offered her a position as housekeeper to his family.
It cut John to the quick to see the way his mother struggled to make light of her aching feet and legs after the Carvens failed to engage enough temporary staff to help out at a weekend house party, leaving May to play house maid as well as housekeeper. She seemed genuinely delighted, though, with the tips that some of the guests left in their rooms.
‘You’ll be able to have those new school shoes now, Johnny,’ she exulted. ‘Wasn’t it kind of them?’
He felt he would rather die of shame than wear shoes bought at such a price but, once again, kept his thoughts to himself.
The only matter on which he had ever spoken up was when he asked his mother if there might be enough money for him to have piano lessons.
When John was twelve Lady Catherine, Archibald and Gwen Carven’s only child, began taking lessons every Tuesday and Thursday evening and John usually found some excuse to hang around in the hall of the big house close to the music room while these were going on.
Catherine, a shy roly‑poly girl of about eight at that time, hated every moment of her lessons and was painfully slow to learn, but Gwen Carven insisted that music was one of the social graces she simply must acquire.
One evening, after her teacher had left, John peered into the music room and found Catherine sitting frozen‑faced before the big black Broadwood piano, tears sliding slowly down her round pink cheeks.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, stepping into the room though strictly speaking he was not supposed to do so unless directly invited by one of the family.
‘It’s beastly Miss Agnew,’ Catherine sobbed. ‘I c‑can’t play this piece, and she p‑promised Mummy I’d be note perfect when she has her next At Home. That’s t‑tomorrow, John, and I’m still absolutely hopeless! Miss Agnew says I’m just being stubborn. She’s shown me how and now it’s jolly well up to me to practise – if it takes all night.’
She looked at him plaintively, her dark plaits swinging and tears trembling on her long lashes.
‘I have tried, honestly. But my fingers don’t seem to listen to my brain, if you know what I mean. Oh, I’m so clumsy and stupid, and Mummy’s going to be so cross!’
‘You’re not clumsy or stupid,’ John said firmly. ‘Budge up a bit and I’ll see what I can make of this. Hmm, ‘Fur Elise’. I think I know how it’s supposed to go...’
Although he had barely touched a keyboard before apart from hammering out ‘Chopsticks’ on the battered school piano while waiting for the music master to arrive, John had a natural gift for sight reading and after acquainting himself with the piano he managed to pick out the simple melody and accompaniment in two or three attempts, haltingly at first but then with increasing fluency and expression. Catherine was lost in admiration then laughed delightedly when he got her to place her hands over his, guiding her slowly through the piece a few times until she was confident enough for him to slide his hands away.
‘I’m playing it!’ she cried, smiling widely and displaying the gap between her two front teeth.
‘I knew you’d be able to,’ he told her. ‘It’s just a matter of confidence.’
She was smiling at him when the door was thrust open and her mother strode in. A thin, hard‑faced woman, she had married late in life and treated Catherine with slightly less affection than she displayed to her horses and dogs.
‘Was that you playing just now, Catherine? If so I can’t think what that fool of a teacher is wittering on about. It sounded perfectly all right to me.’
‘Oh, it is,’ Catherine assured her. ‘Now that John’s shown me how.’
Gwendolen narrowed her eyes slightly. She always seemed to John to look down her nose at him.
‘Didn’t know you were musical, John. I suppose they teach you at Grammar School, do they?’ She sounded bored, not really interested in receiving a reply.
‘No, piano lessons cost extra and Mum’s got enough to pay for with my uniform and the bus fares,’ he said quietly.
‘Pity,’ she said offhandedly. ‘Now then, Catherine, time for bed.’
But Catherine had an idea. She took her time over gathering together her music then looked earnestly up at her mother.
‘Mummy, couldn’t John share my lessons? He’s so clever he could soon pick up the scales and theory, and it wouldn’t make much difference to Miss Agnew, would it?’
Gwendolen was not pleased to find herself put on the spot like this. Yes, the housekeeper’s brat was clever, too bloody clever like his light‑fingered father, she sometimes suspected. She didn’t like the way he was constantly insinuating himself into her house.
‘I really don’t think it would work out, darling,’ she told her daughter firmly.
‘Oh, but Mummy...’
‘No, Catherine. That’s quite enough. Can’t you see you’re embarrassing John?’
In fact Catherine’s thwarted generosity didn’t offend him. Her mother’s meanness did. They both knew it would have been a drop in the ocean to Gwen to have subsidised her lessons. She simply didn’t choose to.
When Catherine had been led away to bed John returned to the stables flat to find his mother painstakingly turning the collar of one of the second‑hand shirts she had bought for him from the school uniform exchange.
‘There you are, John. Where’ve you been for so long?’
‘Playing the piano with Catherine.’
‘Oh, John, what am I always telling you about hanging around the Hall? You know Lady Carven doesn’t like it.’
‘No, but Catherine does. Besides, I helped her out. Old lady C wants to show her off at the next big do’
‘Cocktail party, dear. Or ‘At Home’. ‘Do’ sounds a little bit common. And please don’t refer to Her Ladyship like th
at!’
‘‑ and Catherine was having a terrible struggle so I put her right,’ he finished.
May looked surprised. ‘But you don’t play the piano, dear.’
He flushed and looked at her hard from deep‑set dark eyes that were so like his father’s.
‘I think I could learn, Mum. I managed to pick out Catherine’s piece for her and I seem to have a flair for it – if we could afford some lessons?’
May breathed in deeply and could no longer meet his pleading eyes. She didn’t say anything. It was obvious from the way they lived – his second‑hand uniform, her hand‑sewn clothes – that there was absolutely no money to spare.
‘It’s okay,’ John said quickly. ‘Just one of my daft ideas. Forget it.’
But May couldn’t do that. It hurt her to have to say no to her son when he was such a good boy, rarely asking her for anything. Though she kept up a brave front about enjoying her job, she secretly chafed at her poor pay and the long hours Lady Carven demanded of her. But His Lordship had a better side and May knew how to appeal to it. A few weeks later she told her son, ‘I’m sorry I can’t afford to pay for piano lessons but I’ve had a word with Lord Carven and he’s agreed to let you use the piano in the music room, provided you don’t disturb them. I can run to a Teach Yourself book, and you’re a clever boy, John. Look how you managed to help Lady Catherine...’
And so every evening between eight and nine, while the Carvens were at dinner, he was given the freedom of the music room and the magnificent Broadwood piano with its rich mellow tone. Even without the benefit of lessons he became a much better pianist than Catherine could ever hope to be and finally she persuaded her father to buy her a show jumper, after which schooling and stable duties left her with no time for music and John in sole possession of the piano.
Archibald Carven was pleased but slightly mystified by John’s musical progress. It seemed an odd choice of hobby to him for a boy with the run of the Cerne Estate, and the grooms could always have done with some help exercising and grooming the family horses. He approved of the lad’s obvious interest in his own private collection of old handguns though. Archie had not only taken the trouble to explain where they came from, but also lent him books on the subject. After that, John visited the library in Dorchester and taught himself as much as he could about guns so that he would be able to talk knowledgeably with His Lordship.
* * *
In his last term at the Grammar School his class visited Tearborne Castle. John usually hated visiting stately homes and museums because of the essays he had to write afterwards, but this time it was different. Among the exhibits was a collection of antique handguns in two glass cases along with timepieces from the same period. He noticed in particular a tiny muzzle‑loaded Snap Hance pistol from the sixteenth century, only five inches long.
He was so fascinated that he was still looking at it after the rest of his class had left the room. Glancing around, he saw he was quite alone. He lifted the glass cover and took out the gun. It fitted his hand perfectly. It was exquisite.
‘Hurry along, Forbes!’
John jumped guiltily. A teacher stood at the end of the room.
‘Coming, Sir!’
Startled he buried his hands in his blazer pockets. When the teacher turned away impatiently, John followed him, still clutching the smooth stock of the little pistol.
He hid it away in a strong box under the roots of a three‑hundred‑year‑old oak in the home park. At half term, he used his carefully saved pocket money to buy a day excursion ticket to London where he’d decided it should be safe to sell the gun.
Now, returning with Arthur Black’s £250 in his pocket, he decided his newfound wealth would be safest in his old hiding place until he worked out how best to invest it. He already knew there was more money to be made this way.
John Forbes selected his new occupation through a long process of assessment and elimination. He was well aware that he had special qualities. By nature he preferred to keep in the background, to blend in with the crowd and not be noticed. He was average at school work and sports but in some peculiar way always commanded his school mates’ respect. Whenever a difficult or daring project was to be undertaken, John would find himself looked to as leader without having to put himself forward.
He naturally manipulated others. He observed small signs: a change of expression, nervous tension, body language. He analysed how each person he met talked and dressed, how they reacted to each others. In the end, he knew what a person would say before they even said it, and recognised that this gave him a subtle kind of advantage.
Most of the fifteen and sixteen year olds at the nearby girls’ grammar had, a crush on him. He had an extraordinary, unconscious charm and a ready smile. He was a dreamer who would stop speaking in mid‑sentence, totally preoccupied with his own thoughts. At these times his eyes would be focussed on something that existed only in his own mind.
His final list of possible future careers was very different from that of his school friends.
The army was one possibility. A life of discipline and order seemed strangely attractive to John. He read books about Alexander the Great, Napoleon, and the First and Second World Wars. His father had been a soldier, of course, so it obviously ran in the blood. But, decorated hero though he was, Stanley Forbes’s example was not ultimately one John felt he could follow.
Becoming a barrister was something else he’d considered. John liked reading legal dramas and had gone to see every film where courts of law featured. But the long and expensive qualifying period did not appeal to him. He would have to depend on his mother for too long, and her means were small.
To join the Cerne Estate Office was another possibility. A place would certainly be found for him there if he expressed an interest. But then, like his mother, he would be at the beck and call of the Carvens twenty‑four hours a day, and as much as he loved the estate, John wanted to see the world beyond it.
Besides, he wasn’t cut out to be anyone’s servant.
His final option was to devote his life to becoming rich.
It did not really matter to John what he did, so long as he could become at least as wealthy as the Carvens. Wealth made all the difference between the quality of life they enjoyed and the narrow, penny‑pinching existence endured by his mother.
He couldn’t do anything about his breeding but he could use his education and intelligence as tools towards the founding of a fortune.
And he realized the first step was taken when he slid that valuable antique pistol into his pocket instead of replacing it in the case.
The army, the law and the Estate Office paled beside the thrill of handling money so easily earned.
John Forbes’s course in life was set: he was going to be wealthy, that was what all that mattered.
For the foreseeable future he intended to make his fortune as a professional thief.
CHAPTER FIVE
_________________________
Copenhagen, Denmark, June 1955
Erick Elgberg jumped from the jetty into the small sailing boat Cristina at 6 am one Friday morning.
Quickly he got the sails up and a minute later sailed out of Skovshoved Harbour, five miles north of Copenhagen, hanging out over the side, his back almost touching the water. There was no ballast in the little craft, only his own weight to balance it, which meant constantly shifting position, hanging half out of the boat and not being able to relax for one moment. Erick did not mind. He was blissfully happy in fact.
He had over a week in front of him, to be spent absolutely alone, before he had to reach the town of Hornbaek, where his parents’ summer house was. His mother had insisted he must be back for his eighteenth birthday.
It had been a surprise to her, to his brothers, friends and everyone who heard about it, that yesterday his usually strict and authoritarian father had given him permission to sail alone in his small hand built dinghy.
Erick wou
ld cross to Landskrona in Sweden, then to the island of Ven. Following the Oresund coast northwards, he would enter into the more rugged Kattegat at Elsinore, aiming for the Swedish tennis town of Baastad where the annual Swedish Open was about to take place, before finally returning to the sandy beaches on the North Coast of Zealand in Denmark.
In previous years his boat had been put on a trailer behind his parents’ car, on the way to the summer house, and sailed under strict supervision only. Erick would not even have bothered to ask permission to make such a trip in the twelve‑foot ‘Ideal’ dinghy he had lovingly constructed himself three years ago.
This year only he and his father knew why he had been allowed to sail so far and alone.
Yesterday morning at eleven o’clock Erick had gone on his motor bike directly from the Copenhagen Business College to his father’s factory in the centre of Copenhagen.
Far’s office was furnished with heavy, dark mahogany 19th Century furniture, which his father had refused to change. On the wall hung a huge gilt‑framed portrait of Erick’s grandfather, looking gloomily down.
‘Yes?’ his father said, surprised to see him when he came into the office.
With his blond hair and blue eyes Erick was a handsome boy with an air of vulnerability. But his father would respond badly to any show of weakness. Best to be straightforward about this, Erick knew from experience.
‘I’ve failed the first year exam. I was told this morning,’ he announced.
Axel Elgberg closed the door and sat down heavily in his large leather chair.
‘Failed! And after all the extra help you got?’
‘It came too late.’ Erick did not know where to look.
Axel sat back without saying anything.
‘I’m not sure I know what to do now,’ Erick said finally after several minutes’ oppressive silence.
‘Well, I do,’ his father said calmly. ‘Go back to the College today and ask to retake the exam as soon as possible.’
‘I can’t try again! I’d have to redo the whole year and I hate that place.’