Storymania - The Farnsworth Affair by Richard Koss

The Farnsworth Affair
Richard Koss

Chapter One – The Meeting

The young reporter entered the visitor’s walkway escorted by the security officer. He sat down at the table opposite the glass window with the small cutaway for speaking. I had been waiting for him.

The reporter spoke softly. “Mr. Sellers, I’m John Macomber of the Star.”

“Yes, I know. Randy told me you were coming.”

“I have a small portable tape recorder with me.” Macomber set the tiny recorder down on the sill next to his left arm, concealing the device from view with his right arm.

“We don’t have much time, so I suggest you begin and please try to speak clearly. I’ll try to supplement what you’re saying with my notes but I’ll be relying primarily on this recording to write from.”

I cleared my throat and looked at the young reporter.

There was only one place to begin - The train ride. How many days and nights had I thought about it? How different my life would be today if only I had left an hour earlier or perhaps even an hour later that Wednesday afternoon. Instead, I took the 3:35 back to London.

I remember watching the utility poles and treetops skipping by from my window of the passenger train as I thought of my brother Edward.

I was firmly convinced for years that Edward truly belonged at Dartmoor Asylum. He was undoubtedly insane. Even though he recognized me and called me by name, everything else he said made no sense whatsoever. At least I felt some consolation in knowing Edward was comfortable there and would be treated humanely.

Then I saw him. The sophisticated looking gentleman sitting across the aisle caught me by surprise when he asked for a cigarette as I was about to light up myself.

“Haven’t had one in years. Just one of the many things I’ve missed these past years.” I lit the man’s cigarette for him and he glanced approvingly at my silver-plated lighter bearing my initials. As I studied him, I guessed him to be about forty-five. He had dark hair with patches of gray, a receding hairline, and was a bit on the lean side.
“You’ve been abroad?” I asked.

“Oh no, just at Dartmoor. But our behavior was very restricted you know. No smoking or alcoholic beverages.”

“You were an inma….er a patient there?” I quickly caught myself..

“Oh yes, for fifteen years. They finally decided that I’m fine and said I could go
home.”

“None of your family came to get you ?” A reasonable question, I thought at the time.

“Don’t really have much of a family and father will be gone soon. Besides, I certainly know my way home without anyone’s help. Where are you headed?”

“I was visiting my brother at Dartmoor and I’m on my way back to London.”

The strange man surprised me again by extending an unexpected invitation.
“ You’re welcome to join me at my home in Weldon. There’s only my father waiting for me but he hasn’t long to live, as I said before.”

“Thank you so much for your hospitable offer but I must get back to my wife In London.” I lied.

The stranger nodded. “I quite understand. Never liked women that much myself. At least not enough to marry one. Besides, father never approved of my associations with women; called them gold-diggers.”

The man proceeded to formally introduce himself as Peter Farnsworth the son of Neville Farnsworth. I was impressed because I had heard of Neville Farnsworth, a prominent solicitor in London for years and a successful businessman as well.

“I’m Charles Sellers.” We shook hands and I handed him a business card I retrieved from my front coat pocket, a habit which had become routine for me since joining my new brokerage firm.

Peter Farnsworth continued to talk about his father and his notable success in law practice and business but I was getting drowsy and I closed my eyes and drifted off as he continued on, not seeming to mind my lack of good manners.

I came out of my light nap to the movement of feet as the train reached the small station platform at Weldon. I saw the back of Peter Farnsworth as he left the train with only a small bag in his hand. The man must have thought me quite rude to doze off like I did and I remember feeling guilty that I never got a chance to properly bid him goodbye.


Chapter Two – The Invitation

The train continued on toward London but I couldn’t fall back to sleep. I continued to think about Farnsworth and wondered what he might have done to spend fifteen years at Dartmoor. I thought about his invitation and began to wonder if I hadn’t passed up a golden opportunity.

I had lied to the man. I had no wife to go home to, but to accept a rather sudden invitation from a stranger just released from a mental institution seemed risky to me at the time, even though Farnsworth appeared to be a perfectly normal gentleman.

Despite all my rationalizing, I began to regret spurning his invitation. After all, how often does one get an opportunity to meet someone like Neville Farnsworth; especially an unknown, struggling, stockbroker like myself. Who knows what doors Peter’s father could open for me.

My mind sparred with these thoughts of regret and doubt as I recalled Peter Farnsworth talking about his release. Most of the inmates at Dartmoor were hopeless cases, like my brother. But surely, Farnsworth would not have been released without professional consensus that he was ready to resume his normal place in society.

No, I had made a mistake and I would right it the first thing in the morning. I would call Farnsworth and apologize for my rudeness and furthermore, I would make amends by paying Peter and his father a personal visit.

I got off the train at London and went directly to my flat. I didn’t even think about dinner. Exhausted from the long ride, I fell asleep like a baby.

I overslept that morning and cursed myself for not setting my alarm. I remember putting a cigarette in my mouth and fumbling about, looking for my lighter, which I couldn’t find. Then I called my office and told Jenny, my assistant, I might not be in at all.

After thumbing through the telephone book, I found the listing. Farnsworth, Neville – East Channing House, Weldon. I dialed the telephone number and after several rings, recognized Peter Farnsworth’s voice. “Hello.”

“Peter, this is Charles Sellers, we met on the train yesterday afternoon.”

“Oh yes, Charles, nice to hear from you.”

“Peter, I want to apologize for dozing off on you and not saying goodbye.”

“Quite alright old man, I saw that you were a might exhausted, and didn’t want to bother you. I probably bored you to sleep with my rambling about my family.”

“On the contrary, I was quite interested in learning about you and your family. In fact, I thought I might make up for my rudeness by paying you and your father a visit sometime soon, if your invitation still stands.”

“We’d be delighted to have you. As a matter of fact, I rang you up at your office to invite you but someone said you weren’t expected in. Why not come over this afternoon?”

“Are you sure? I mean you’ve been away from your father for so long, perhaps you need some more time together, alone.”

“Nonsense. You come over as soon as you can. Father’s surprised me with a gift of a rather large some of money and I need some advice on how to invest it.”

Hearing that, I became flush with excitement. This Farnsworth connection, quite possibly the opportunity of a lifetime.

“Alright then, I’ll see you about three-thirty. I’ll drive out instead of taking the train. That way I won’t have to worry about getting a late train back.”

“Good idea. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding the estate. If you do, just ask one of the villagers at the pub nearby.”

Chapter Three – The Visitation

I left for Weldon exactly at one o’clock. I guessed it would be about a two and a half hour drive, but my eagerness gave me a heavy foot and I arrived at the village around three. I passed by the pub Peter had told me about and stopped to ask an old man walking a bicycle how to get to Channing, the Farnsworth estate. Although his eyesight was obviously poor, he had no trouble giving me directions and I found it in no time.

It was a huge house and I drove all the way to the end of the driveway. There were no other cars in sight. I rang the front doorbell. When there was no answer, I rapped with the large door knocker.

Shortly after rapping, the door opened and Peter greeted me with a broad smile on his face.

“Welcome, my friend, won’t you come in. The maid is off today, so we’ll have to fend for ourselves.”

He took my coat and draped it over a chair in the vestibule. The house was dimly lit but I could still see the magnificent oak and splendid décor with large oil paintings hanging on the walls, everywhere, as he motioned me to follow him into the library.

Farnsworth turned on the wall light switch and a chandelier hanging above the long table cast its light directly on a large black bag near the end of the table.

“Let’s have some sherry.” Farnsworth produced a silver metal tray with two glasses and a decanter of sherry from a small glass table against the wall.

“I’m afraid father won’t be joining us. He hasn’t been feeling well since this morning.”

I was disappointed. “I’m sorry to hear that Peter.”

After pouring our sherry, he reached over and slid the large black bag toward me in the center of the long table.

“Please take a look Charles.” I opened the black bag and could hardly hold back my astonishment as I saw the wrapped stacks of pound notes, mostly hundred and fifty pound notes, stuffed into the large leather bag. It was impossible to estimate how much was there without actually counting it all.

“There’s two hundred and seventy thousand pounds in there – exactly. I know because I counted it three times.”

I looked at Peter Farnsworth as he smiled through the sherry glass he held up to his mouth.

“I want you to take this back to London with you and open up a brokerage account for me. I expect you to be generous with yourself regarding your fees for advice and counsel, and of course, your normal brokerage commission as you buy and sell securities or whatever.”

I sat down at the table only because I was afraid I would fall down. Peter sat down and we continued to drink sherry. I listened as he told me stories of his childhood, his late brother and their turbulent relationship with their father and each other.

He never discussed how his brother died and why his father kept so much cash lying around. Peter indicated this was only a pittance compared to what he would receive when his father passed on, he being his only living heir.

We clinked our glasses together in a toast. “To the beginning of a long and profitable friendship.” I could tell Peter was getting tipsy and I began to feel uneasy about this entire business. But however suspicious I became then, it didn’t stop me from yielding to the sin of avarice or trying to outwit a madman.

“Peter I can’t take this money back with me. There are several authorization forms to be completed and signed by you before I can exercise control over these funds.”

He waved his hands, almost making jest of legal and financial protocol. “Nonsense! If it’ll make you feel better, just give me a receipt for the money and I’ll stop by your office in the next day or so to complete whatever bloody forms you need me to sign. I trust you Charles. You are the only friend I have in the world. My father is my father but he is not my friend.”

“Alright Peter, I’d better leave then, before I have too much of this sherry. I still have a good drive ahead of me. I’ll call you tomorrow from my office. We’ll get this money working for you at once. Please give your father my regards and tell him I look forward to meeting him when he’s feeling better.”

Peter walked me to the front door. “ I wish you could stay the night but I know you’ve got a wife. She’s probably very lovely to boot.” His look made me feel uneasy and I was anxious to get out of there.

I left with the big leather bag full of hundred and fifty pound notes in the trunk of my car. That was the last time I spoke to Peter Farnsworth.

I woke up several times during that night. Each time I looked under my bed to be sure the black leather bag was still there. It was. I had not been dreaming but my nightmare was just around the corner.

Chapter Four – The Fiduciary

As I drove to my office at the Wadsworth and Keyes brokerage firm in the morning, my mind played a tug of war with the devil himself. Sitting on the floor of my Volkswagon sedan was two hundred seventy thousand pounds, nearly SEVEN HUNDRED THOUSAND IN U.S. DOLLARS. Sure, I had given Peter a receipt but he might have a difficult time convincing the authorities that he had all that cash in the first place. After all, he just got out of a mental institution. How reliable would his story seem to anyone?

I continued to fight off the demons as I thought about just taking off to Switzerland, America, anywhere, it didn’t matter. I could live a good life no matter where I went. Yes I could take off and just keep going. But I knew I wouldn’t.
I was basically an honest person and I took pride in my work, my associations, my friendships. I couldn’t live with myself or be in constant fear of someday being caught.

No, I would do the right thing. My association with Peter Farnsworth and his father could prove to be a springboard for my future. The principals at Wadsworth and Keyes would be very impressed.

The only one in the office I had told about the Farnsworth affair was Jenny, my assistant. It must have been around nine-thirty when the two of us went to open a temporary money fund with all that cash. Later Farnsworth could come in to sign all of the required forms giving me and my firm power of attorney to initiate transactions on his behalf.

Unfortunately, John Edgar, the money fund manager, had a problem with opening the account in Farnsworth’s name because not only was I without documents from him authorizing me to do so, I had nothing confirming his existence for that matter, like a birth certificate, driver’s license, proof of citizenship - nothing at all. I was embarrassed to be so ill prepared, expecting Edgar to simply accept such a large amount of cash with hardly a trace of evidence where it came from and to whom it belonged. Despite his respect for my word, I could see he was uncomfortable and confused. I couldn’t blame him.

So temporarily, I agreed to open the account in my name. I could change the account back to Farnsworth’s name after he came in and we had all the necessary information. I just didn’t want to leave that amount of cash lying around in a safe deposit box while waiting for him to show up.

Jenny and I had a quick lunch. She was delighted for me and quite curious about my new client. I didn’t tell her how we met, or that he had just been released from a mental institution. Avoiding Jenny’s questions made me realize just how bizarre this entire turn of events had become. It was then that I sensed something quite ominous, for the first time.

Chapter Five – The Revelation

I spent most of the morning reviewing the activity on the exchange and took a look at what was going on in the U.S. market. I planned to call Farnsworth within the hour. At eleven, Jenny came in to my office with a strange look on her face. “Charles, there’s an inspector Hilliard from Scotland Yard here to see you.”

I felt my stomach jump a bit and motioned for her to send him in, not having a clue as to what prompted this visit.

The tall, balding man in his fifties, far from the Sherlock Holmes mold, entered my office with another younger man in plainclothes.

“I’m inspector Hilliard and this gentleman is sergeant Robert Dunning, sir.”

I shook their hands and they sat down in the two chairs in front of my desk.

“Mr. Sellers, are you acquainted with Mr. Neville Farnsworth?”

“Actually, I’ve never met the man but I did transact some business with his son, Peter.” The two men looked at each other. Then the inspector leaned closer to my desk.

“Exactly what type of business did you transact, Mr. Sellers?”

“Inspector, this is a brokerage firm and I’m sure you know that we maintain strict confidentiality about our clients and their affairs. Would you mind telling me what this is all about?”

“Is this your business card, Mr. Sellers?” The inspector placed my business card in front of me on the desk.

“Of course it is, why do you ask?” I was a bit sarcastic.

“Is this your cigarette lighter?” He laid a silver-plated lighter on the desk next to my business card. “Those are your initials on the lighter, C—S, aren’t they?”

“ Why yes, that’s my lighter. Where on earth did you find it? It’s been missing since Wednesday.”

“Wednesday?” The inspector seemed puzzled.

I could no longer hold back my irritation with the inspector. “For God’s sake man, what the hell is this all about?”

“Thursday afternoon - yesterday, that is, my office was notified that an inmate had escaped probably sometime Wednesday, from Dartmoor Asylum. An orderly was found unconscious, in the inmate’s bed, apparently left there to conceal his absence. That inmate was Peter Farnsworth. A dispatch of his escape was sent to police in all adjacent counties and throughout the country. The first thing we did was to call the Farnsworth estate. There was no answer. Local police visited the house later that evening and found it locked with no visible sign of life anywhere. “

The inspector’s eyes studied me as I became pale and shaken, anticipating the worst was yet to come.

“Apparently the Farnsworth maid had the day off. When she returned to the estate early this morning, she discovered the body of Neville Farnsworth in his study and called the police. We went to Channing, the Farnsworth estate this morning to investigate.”

“Neville Farnsworth had been strangled. His safe was open and according to his maid, a satchel with a rather large sum of money was missing. She knew he kept the money in the safe because she saw him put it there just Monday of this week ”

My heart began to pound so loudly I was sure the inspector could hear it. The money - oh God! Wait until he finds out I brought the money here.

“Peter Farnsworth is still at large, but that’s not the reason we came here Mr. Sellers. You see - we found YOUR business card and YOUR cigarette lighter on Neville Farnsworth’ desk in his study - just feet from where he was found murdered.”

I sat before the two men in shock and disbelief. Countless thoughts and emotions ran through me as I became angry at my naivete, believing Farnsworth when he said he was released from Dartmoor. I thought about the pound notes stuffed in the black bag, his story about his father not feeling well and the way he described his relationship with his father.

My reverie was abruptly interrupted by inspector Hilliard.
“Mr. Sellers, did you kill Neville Farnsworth?

“Good Lord no! I told you I never even met him.”

“But you were there at his house?”

“Yes, but he wasn’t there.”

“Then who were you with and how did you get into the house?”

“Peter Farnsworth let me in. I went there to …….”

“You went there to do what, Mr. Sellers? Rob and murder Neville Farnsworth?”

“NO! That’s completely untrue.”

The inspector began to raise his voice. “You want me to believe that you went to the Farnsworth estate to transact business with Peter Farnsworth, AN ESCAPED MADMAN HALF THE COUNTRY, THE POLICE, AND SCOTLAND YARD WERE LOOKING FOR?”

I looked at him, dazed, pale and shaken, yet still able to give him a feeble, but reluctant nod with my head.

“Well now, I’d say you’ve got a great deal of explaining to do and we’d best take this down to headquarters, Mr. Sellers. And if I were you lad, I’d get myself a solicitor to be there when you tell your story. And make sure you find a good one – the solicitor, I mean.

Jenny asked me politely, as I put on my coat and prepared to leave the office with the two men, “Will you be coming back, Charles?”

“Not today.” I answered.

Chapter Six – The Evidence

I called my friend, Randy Thomsett and he came within the hour. Randy was a competent attorney but criminal matters were somewhat out of his league.

I told them my story from beginning to end. For hours, I repeated over and over the details of meeting Peter Farnsworth on the train, the Thursday morning telephone call, the meeting at Farnsworth’s house and accepting the money from Peter in the large black bag.

Randy knew he was in over his head. He recommended a colleague, a criminal attorney named Chauncey Blackwell. He was expensive, but I had no choice. I would drain every pound of savings and investments I had to my name plus what I would borrow from Randy.

I was indicted in no time. The evidence, although mostly circumstantial, was
overwhelming. Just before we were to go to trial, Blackwell reviewed the evidence with me.

The prosecution contended that I had made the acquaintance of Peter Farnsworth at some point, as a result of previous visitations to see my brother. Learning of his father’s prominence, I plotted to help him escape. On the train ride from Dartmoor, we planned to kill his father and take the money from his safe and later arrange to meet, share the spoils and abscond into obscurity.

It was believed a scarf or some type of smooth kerchief was used to strangle Neville Farnsworth, although none was ever found. My lighter and business card were found in his study and my fingerprints were found on one of the sherry glasses in the library. The coroner determined that Neville Farnsworth died around mid morning that Thursday and telephone records showed that a call (Peter’s call) was made from the Farnsworth house to my office that Thursday morning. My assistant Jenny confirmed that I did call my office that morning to say I wouldn’t be in. There was no way to prove my call was made from London because local calls were not documented in the billing records. That placed me in the Farnsworth house just before Mr. Farnsworth was murdered. Randy and Blackwell canvassed the village to find the old man who gave me directions to the estate. Only he could have proved that I arrived about three in the afternoon, well after Farnsworth’s time of death.
He was never found.

I was identified by the porter working on the 3:35 pm train coming back from Dartmoor and he confirmed that I spent considerable time talking to a man who fit the description of Peter Farnsworth.

Finally, the prosecution contended that I deliberately opened the account in my name to easily gain access to the funds without interference from Peter Farnsworth.
Jenny’s and Edgar’s testimony would be of little help to me in disputing this claim.
It was also alleged, but not presented as a formal charge, that I probably killed Peter Farnsworth and disposed of his body since he was never found and was last seen with me on the train.

It didn’t even matter whether Peter actually killed his father or not. I was known, by evidence of the documented telephone call to my office, to be there in the house at the time of the murder. If I didn’t kill him myself, then I was certainly a co-conspirator and an accomplice to the crime. Even if Peter Farnsworth was still alive and were to be eventually captured, his testimony could hardly be admissible under any circumstances. He was certifiably insane.

Blackwell conceded that which I already knew. There was no chance to be acquitted of the charge of murder or conspiracy to commit murder, as well as the lesser charge of grand theft. Even if I pleaded guilty to a crime I didn’t commit, I was looking at forty years to life imprisonment with little chance of parole. Neville Farnsworth was a respected fellow jurist, a pillar of British society. Sentencing would not go easy with me.

Blackwell had a psychologist friend with whom he reviewed my case. My only chance for a lighter sentence he felt, was to convince the court that I was also insane.
It was a shot in the dark, but if he succeeded, I would probably be sent to Dartmoor and in ten years, perhaps even less, I could regain my freedom. I had nothing to lose. I was otherwise, facing a hopeless situation.

My brother’s history of mental illness and other evidence of family mental disorder was used as a starting point. The ridiculous attempt to steal a large sum of cash and then deposit it in my own name indicated more than questionable judgement, especially for a man in my profession. Aiding in the escape of the insane Peter Farnsworth also indicated I was not a rational person.

The psychologist concluded that I was a schizophrenic, a man who’s personality and behavior could change frequently and without predictability. He recommended I be committed and isolated from society until I would hopefully, someday be cured.
It would be a great injustice, he eloquently pleaded to the court, to hold me morally and legally responsible for the crimes with which I was charged. The court had two other psychologists and a psychiatrist examine me. The results of their examinations were less conclusive than Blackwell’s friend but they agreed that he was probably more correct than not, in his evaluation of me.

I was ordered committed to the maximum security ward of Dartmoor Asylum. That was almost ten years ago. Peter Farnsworth was never found. Despite numerous examinations and evaluations, nothing has changed. Perhaps they don’t want me released for fear I’ll tell the rest of the world my story and someone may believe me.
“Randy told me you were a good journalist. You’re about the only hope I have remaining.”
Chapter Seven - Epilogue

There was mixed reaction to the sensational story printed in the Star, a London tabloid. “The Farnsworth Affair” it was titled, but the major newspapers and wire services paid little attention to the story. The tabloid industry was nothing but smut, fabrication, sensationalized stories that appealed to a low level of readers who thrived on that drivel. This was the consensus of the major networks and newspapers when referring to the “Farnsworth Affair,” the story of Charles Sellers.

Nevertheless, hundreds of letters to the Star regarding the story continued to pour in daily - some labeling Sellers’ story as pure fiction, many calling for his case to be reviewed, others demanding his release from Dartmoor. It’s doubtful that any of these letters were ever read by anyone in an official capacity empowered to help Sellers. But they were evidence that there was a lot of interest in the story and this certainly helped the circulation of the Star.

John Macomber had grown in stature as a journalist since writing the story, and he was now routinely receiving job offers from even some of the most reputable newspapers and publications in Great Britain.

One of his assistants opened all of the mail regarding the “Farnsworth Affair” story
and he rarely looked at any letters himself, unless the assistant felt they were special enough. One such letter did arrive recently and he found it on his desk, just before leaving the office one evening. The envelope was unopened and just below the address was printed, “To be opened by John Macomber only.”

Macomber already had his coat on but something made him sit down and open the envelope.

Dear Mr. Macomber,

I want you to know that your story about Charles Sellers is entirely accurate in all respects. I am the only living person who can attest to that fact. Charles Sellers is not insane and furthermore, he is totally innocent of all that he has been charged with. I know, because it was I who killed Neville Farnsworth.

Neville Farnsworth was a selfish scoundrel who made his fortune at the expense and adversity of others. He cared not for his sons and in fact, had his son Peter committed to Dartmoor, when it was Neville himself, who was responsible for the death of Peter’s brother. He cared more about his legacy than anything else. This is why he did not want his sons to survive him as heirs to his estate. Instead, he chose to leave his ill-gotten fortune to the parasites who helped make him successful and to those foundations and hypocritical institutions best suited to guarantee the perpetuation of an undeserving tribute to his life and accomplishments.

Poor Charles, he was my friend. If I thought for one instant that turning myself over to the authorities would gain his freedom, I would have done so long ago. But I’m sure such surrender would have been in vain, and there would then be two of us at Dartmoor.

I urge you to continue this crusade for Charles. Perhaps with enough public support, someone will see that he is truly innocent and deserves a chance to rejoin society. Please let him know that he is truly the only person I have ever met that I consider to be my friend. I am sorry that I got him involved in my quest for revenge and I beg his forgiveness.

                                                           Sincerely,

                                                           Peter Farnsworth