Phileas came back to London after over a month, late in the morning. He had not expected to be gone for so long, but Jules and Passepartout had become a dynamic force. He just left Passepartout with enough free time to work with Verne. Together, they sorted out a thick stack of experiments and theoretical conclusions. Some of which, if actually tested, might become patient able in and of themselves. It had been amazing watching the way Passepartout and Jules's minds worked together.
He had spent most of his time overseeing the work the agents created. When not doing that, he took in the city with Jules or just by himself, to gamble, or generally carouse at his leisure. It was a nice continental holiday. But he couldn't stay away forever.
They walked inside, immediately seeing a pile of letters on the floor. Passepartout gathered that up, but it didn't look like as much as there should have been. After a long absence, the house should have been musty, but also, not as much as he had expected.
Looking around, Phileas saw signs that someone had been here since he left. Specifically, the study had been rearranged. The tables were in different positions; the books weren't as they were. A colorful wool shawl draped over Fogg's ottoman told the tale. The hand-woven beauty from Scotland had been a present for Rebecca a few Christmases ago.
"My cousin must be very bored to resort to book cleaning," Fogg said with a smile as he noted how the leather on a few book spines glowed for a good oiling. He supposed she started with the library at her house before coming here. If that had not settled her, she would now be in the country terrorizing the library there.
Passepartout looked over the study, not as indignantly as one would expect of a servant who had just been shown that his efforts weren't considered sufficient. He saw the ledger on Phileas's desk first. "Master, it is catalog. Miss Rebecca making catalog for you of all your books."
Phileas smirked. When Rebecca was bored, she organized things, libraries being one of her favorite diversions. He smiled at the thought of her standing hip deep in books as she worked.
Phileas took the ledger from Passepartout and looked over his mail. Rebecca had gathered and put them on his desk before leaving. Sure enough, he found a note saying she had removed to Shillingsworth Magna. Under that were a few bills, a few expired invitations, and a note from his man of business asking for an urgent meeting at his earliest convenience.
That seemed a singular request. Phileas had meetings with the man once a quarter and their next was not for two more months. Fogg sent Passepartout off with a message to the accountant to meet with him at his earliest convenience.
Alone, Phileas went back over the reports sent to him by Rebecca's watch dog and wondered at Rebecca's rampant activity while he had been away. Rebecca never sat idly at embroidery, as some women did. She was used to being active and this forced inactivity had driven her to odd amusements, like running all over London, playing at being a tourist and seeing Jordan twice. Once on the day he left, the man was seen coming to her house with a thick valise. Later, they met at a restaurant. This had been expected, as the man had asked to see her socially. But that had been the last such meeting before Rebecca left for the country.
No surprise that. I have a fair idea of what Rebecca finds attractive in men, and Isaac Jordan wouldn't do. Heading to the country was her way of putting distance between them.
Passepartout returned to the house an hour later with Fogg's accountant on his heels.
The man, Mr. Evans, was in his early sixties, grayed, spectacled, and neat as a pin. He greeted him with formal decorum and sat in the chair offered him.
Mr. Evans was a grave sort with a perpetual bundle of papers under his arm. He had never seemed hurried, harried, or bothered by anything. But today the man seemed… concerned, maybe? His expression gave the impression that something out of place had come to his notice. On anyone else, it might just mean getting jostled on the way here. With this man, it could mean the imminent crash of the stock market.
After sitting, Evans placed his hands together and looked Fogg straight in the eyes.
"Sir, have you found my service with you lacking? If so, I am humbling sorry and will beg forgiveness for this intrusion. I have tried to serve you and your cousin, Miss Fogg, with the same precision I served your father. If you find that not to your needs anymore–"
Phileas stopped the man with a raised hand. "Excuse me, sir?" He sat up in his seat. "Your service to me has been exemplary and could not be more satisfying. Whatever are you talking about?"
"Well, this sir," he said, handing Phileas a stack of papers from his bag. "There is, of course, nothing to say you cannot use other people in the planning of your affairs, but to change the structure of them to this magnitude would seem a sign of great dissatisfaction in my handling of your cousin's affairs."
Phileas took the papers quickly to look them over. They had his signature on them and Rebecca's. He, however, had never seen them before. They were orders for transfers of funds from one account to another. Fogg did not know what it represented.
"Please, explain this and where it came from," he ordered.
Slowly, Mr. Evans walked him through the main body of it and into the details. It was an ordered transferring Rebecca's property and assets to the firm of Jordan and Howell Inc. The funds and stocks first, then the property titles when the original stewardship was de-established, and those titles were redrawn with Jordan and Howell Inc. as their new stewards. The whole of it was to go into a trust as collateral for an investment. Digging into the matter further, they found one small mention of that new enterprise. It was Jules's engine research.
"Sir," Mr. Evans concluded, "lending funds to new ideas and inventions is a wonderful thing, but a perilous investment. Miss Fogg's bequeaths, while substantial, are nowhere near what would be needed to fund such an endeavor. Sir," Evans said, attempting to hold his normal even tone, and failing. "This research she is funding would drain her entire portfolio in less than a year. Unless it is of short duration, Miss Fogg will be without her bequeath and will be required to mortgage the house on Governor's Square. Her other properties would then go the same way to meet the demands."
"Show me," Phileas said, pulling out the accounting sheets again.
"This is the starting amount Miss Fogg is to invest to begin her association," Evans said, pointing to a large amount stated in a form. "If this works like I believe it will, a transfer of a similar sum would be taken out of the trust at timed intervals. That schedule I cannot deduce from this material. The transfers would normally continue until the research one is investing in reaps benefits. Miss Fogg is, I believe, the sole investor; with the firm supplying further funding when her resources are exhausted. Miss Fogg would go into debt with the firm, by my calculations, spring, a year from now. When the investment makes money, she would have to repay the debt to the firm before receiving benefits for herself."
"Mr. Fogg, this is a perfectly legal arrangement, but of such high risk to Miss Fogg's future, I could not in good conscience execute the matter without conferring with you. If you had not returned within another week, I would have been forced to go to Miss Fogg herself. I know that is highly irregular," he said, head down, "as you have always handled her affairs, but I could not and would not do this without direct confirmation."
Fogg looked at it all over one more time. Piece by piece, it had been laid out like an ever-growing spider's web, spreading out exponentially until Rebecca was engulfed. If this man were not so conscientious in his work, he would have executed the order and washed his hands of the whole matter.
Whatever I am currently paying Evans is about to be increased. He has just saved my cousin from utter ruin.
Fogg ordered Passepartout to Whitehall. "Bring Chatsworth here," he said. "I do not care what he is doing or what he must cancel. Make sure he gets here immediately." The urgency in his master's voice sent Passepartout out of the house to find a carriage before his coat was on.