Conrad clenched his hands. “The price of the shares?”
“Worthless,” Redgrave confirmed. “Westfield fled town because he’s afraid of rioters coming after him.”
I have Pearce. Finally, I have him.
“Call in Pearce’s debts,” Conrad said. “Every last one.”
“And when he cannot pay?” Redgrave raised his thick brows.
“We claim the collateral. His land in Chuddums.”
Redgrave nodded, smiling with satisfaction. “With the right buyers, Godwin & Co. stands to turn a tidy profit. I know of several fellows hungry for land to build factories?—”
“Or we could take our time,” Marvell cut in. “Look for the right sort of investors.”
“Right sort?” Redgrave stared at his colleague as if the fellow had sprouted another head. “The only investor we care about is the one willing to pay the highest price.”
“There are other considerations.”
“Considerations other than profit?” Redgrave turned to Conrad. “Are you hearing this?”
“I am. And I’m curious what Marvell has to say,” Conrad said coolly.
Marvell took a nervous sip—not of tea, which Conrad had offered. Instead, he held a familiar-looking bottle of water. The solicitor had become a proponent of the Chuddums cure, which he insisted had relieved his allergy symptoms.
“Chuddums has unique properties.” Marvell pushed his spectacles up his nose. “In addition to the healthful springs, there are bountiful natural resources, including woods and streams?—”
“Which make it an ideal place to set up factories,” Redgrave pointed out.
“Moreover, the local folk are charming.” Marvell tunneled determinedly toward his point. “They are friendly and boast a plethora of traditions not found elsewhere. And there is the curse.”
Redgrave’s brows shot toward his hair. “Curse?”
The solicitor filled him in, with sufficient detail to earn a considering look from Conrad. Maybe there was something in Chuddums’s water after all. It had transformed his solicitor from a sensible, pragmatic fellow to one who spouted tales of ghosts and star-crossed lovers.
“Utter tommyrot,” Redgrave scoffed. “Don’t tell me you actually believe in that nonsense, Marvell.”
“Whether or not one believes the legend, one cannot deny the fascination it holds,” Marvell said primly. “There is a reason why it has persisted for nearly a century. Why villagers, to this day, blame any shortfalls on the curse. There is, for lack of a better word, a magical feeling in Chuddums. It is wholly unique and, when properly harnessed, gives the village excellent potential for profit. The success of the Chuddums Potion proves this.”
“Finally, you are talking sense again,” Redgrave said. “For a moment there, I thought you believed in that ghostly fiddle-faddle.”
“What I believe is irrelevant. What is important is that the legend’s compelling nature makes it a draw for tourists. With the right leader at the helm, one who understands Chuddums’s distinctive charm, the village could prosper and enrichen all involved.”
To Conrad’s consternation, Marvell was looking straight at him.
“It’s too risky,” he said flatly. “The investment required is too high and the returns, if any, too far in the future.”
“Leave the business of saving villages to coves who don’t mind losing their shirts,” Redgrave said. “We take things apart and sell them for quick profit. That’s what we do.”
“As you say.” Pressing his lips together, Marvell lapsed into silence.
“Let’s move on to another matter,” Conrad said.
He disclosed the second attempt on his life.
“The carriage collision wasn’t an accident, then,” Redgrave said grimly. “You need security, Godwin. I know some blokes, former prizefighters, who work as guards?—”
“Bring them on,” Conrad said. “Hire guards for me and for the office. Tell our employees to stay alert and report any potential threats. I do not wish for a repeat of what happened at the Manchester office.”
