Ben Jonson and a Case of Fraudulent Conversion

Geoffrey Benson

Description

With a nose for the truth and a flair for the dramatic, Ben Jonson investigates five cases of financial irregularities, where all is not as it seems at first, and in the process, demonstrates that accountants are not always dull and boring... In the title story, Ben Jonson, forensic accountant extraordinaire, auditions for the local amateur operatic society, then finds himself defending its director against an accusation of embezzlement. Meanwhile, he has to deal with a startling revelation about a member of his staff and a puzzling coolness at home in relations with his partner, Marcus...

Informations

• Publié par: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Date de parution: 30 avril 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781528962384
• Langue: English

Extrait

Ben Jonson and a Case of Fraudulent Conversion
Geoffrey Benson
Austin Macauley Publishers
2019-04-30
Ben Jonson and a Case of Fraudulent Conversion About The Author About The Book Dedication Copyright Information Acknowledgement 1. Ben Jonson and a Case of Fraudulent Conversion 2. Ben Jonson and a Day at the Races 3. Ben Jonson and a Woman Scorned 4. Ben Jonson and the Art of Mediation 5. Ben Jonson and the Spirit of Christmas
About The Author
Geoffrey Benson was born and grew up in Cheshire. After graduating from Cambridge with a degree in Economics, he qualified as a Chartered Accountant and spent many years working in the profession. He is married with a grown-up son and divides his time between his homes in England and Spain.
About The Book
With a nose for the truth and a flair for the dramatic, Ben Jonson investigates five cases of financial irregularities, where all is not as it seems at first, and in the process, demonstrates that accountants are not always dull and boring…
In the title story, Ben Jonson, forensic accountant extraordinaire, auditions for the local amateur operatic society, then finds himself defending its director against an accusation of embezzlement. Meanwhile, he has to deal with a startling revelation about a member of his staff and a puzzling coolness at home in relations with his partner, Marcus…
Dedication
To Pam and Dominic, the loves of my life.
Copyright Information
Copyright © Geoffrey Benson (2019)
The right of Geoffrey Benson to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781788483469 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781528918619 (Hardback)
ISBN 9781528918626 (Kindle e-book)
ISBN 9781528962384 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2019)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Acknowledgement
To the Guixolenc Writers Group of Sant Feliu, without whose encouragement this book may never have been written!
1. Ben Jonson and a Case of Fraudulent Conversion
“Things are seldom what they seem.” H.M.S Pinafore
For almost as long as I can remember, I have had a fancy to perform the Nightmare Song from Gilbert & Sullivan’s Iolanthe . You know, the one that goes on about “crossing the channel in something between a large bathing machine and a very small second-class carriage”. I don’t know what it is – perhaps the rhythm, or the words, or the combination of the two. There are other “patter songs” of course but they don’t have the same allure, somehow.
I mentioned this in passing one afternoon to my Rottweiler of an office manager, Janet Mathieson. She gave me one of her steely looks.
‘Can you sing?’ she enquired.
I assured her that I was considered to have quite a reasonable voice. ‘As it happens,’ she went on, ‘I’m in an operatic group, and we’re always looking for new blood. Why don’t you come to the auditions next week?’
And so it was that one wet Monday evening, I left my office and walked the few yards down the high street to the Church Hall. I pushed open the door and went through to a rather small side room. The group in question was the “County Amateur Operatic Society” to give the full name, or “CAOS” as it is abbreviated, the latter being unkindly felt in certain circles to accurately represent its performances.
In fact, I was auditioning for a role in “Patience” which was the upcoming production, but I felt it was a good start, so threw myself into what I considered to be a very creditable rendition of If You’re Anxious for to Shine .
As I finished with a flourish, and curled myself (somewhat precariously) on top of a rickety trestle-table with a languid wave of the hand, there was a rather ominous silence from the assembled throng of would-be performers and the director, Clive Pettit. The latter, a plumpish, bustling man in his forties with a maiden-aunt campness about him, the sort that gives gay men a bad press, raised his hands and gave a solitary clap.
‘Thank you so much, Ben,’ he started. ‘That was very…’ here he seemed to struggle to find the right word, ‘that was very…worthy,’ he managed to end, rather lamely.
He went on, ‘It’s a loud voice, and I was thinking of something a bit, well, perhaps less butch, if you get my drift. Bunthorne is supposed to be an aesthete – a bit Oscar Wilde-ish, isn’t he?’
I opened my mouth to protest, but Clive carried on. ‘And also, if you don’t mind me saying so, I envisaged someone a little younger? But I’m sure we can find you something in the chorus.’
As the chorus consists primarily of twenty lovesick maidens, I felt that this was definitely an offer I could refuse. I hurriedly made my excuses and headed for the door, where, to my surprise, I found Marcus, my partner, waiting. He gave me a sympathetic grin as I exited the room and followed me out.
‘Ruddy man!’ I exclaimed, referring to Clive. ‘Jumped up little…’
Marcus put a hand on my shoulder.
‘Hey, hey, steady on. Anyway, he may have a point. At least about your age, if not your voice.’
‘Oh, thank you very much,’ I retorted, ‘with friends like you…’
We went out into the damp night air and walked without speaking the two hundred yards along the high street to our house. Well, I suppose, strictly speaking, my house, but for the last three years, Marcus has been there with me. It seems strange when I think about it, to find that, having been widowed at the age of forty and being on my own with two children for several years, that I have ended up as I am.
Finally having simmered down after my ignominious rebuff at the audition, I broke the silence and said, ‘You’re back early from Budapest. I didn’t expect you tonight.’
Marcus replied shortly, ‘We got through the presentation quicker than I thought, so I grabbed an earlier flight.’
He didn’t seem eager to add any further detail, so I let it drop. These trips to Budapest have become a bit of an issue between us in the last few months…
But I see that I haven’t introduced myself. Jonson’s the name, Ben Jonson. Like the 17th century playwright. What were my parents thinking? My father had initially wanted me to have his middle name, John, but my mother had objected.
‘John Jonson!’ she had exclaimed, ‘it would sound as though the poor child had a stammer!’
And so Ben it was. To be honest, I don’t think it even crossed their minds that there was an illustrious namesake…
It’s odd how life turns out, isn’t it? I sort of drifted into accountancy after university. I suppose I did it really to please my parents: they were in thrall to the idea that “the professions” were the zenith of status and success, and perhaps that was true in their day.
And so I dutifully did my accountancy exams and then to my surprise, found that I actually enjoyed it. The idea of creating order out of chaos is I think deeply ingrained in me. Sometimes Marcus accuses me of having obsessive compulsive disorder. Well, perhaps I have, to an extent. It is true that I cannot leave a room if a drawer or wardrobe is not shut properly, and I hate items being left on the worktops in the kitchen, but I don’t go so far as to have to align all the labels on the tins in the cupboard in the same direction like he does. But whatever, I discovered that the forensic accounting side was ideally suited to my attributes. The combination of accounting and legal procedures I find fascinating, although I have to admit, others, including Marcus, find it hard to understand.
Most of my work is fairly routine – accident and compensation claims mainly – but there are from time to time cases of a more invigorating kind. And so it was a week or so following my humiliating audition.
I was seated at my desk with a pile of files, issuing instructions to Sue, one of my trainee accountants. A fine looking girl of twenty-eight or so, with long dark hair and a figure that I think my mother would have described as buxom, Sue was yawning broadly.
I paused for a moment. ‘Am I boring you, Sue?’ I asked, a little curtly.
She looked up through heavy-lidded eyes. ‘No, of course not, sorry, Ben.’
‘Perhaps you should have an early night for once,’ I said, still irritated. ‘Stop burning the candle at both ends, eh?’
She gave a grimace, and said, ‘I wish!’ but before she could elaborate, the phone trilled. Sue answered it, then listened for a moment before passing it over to me, saying, ‘Tom Bremner for you, Ben.’
I took the receiver off her and put it to my ear. Tom Bremner was the managing partner of a firm of solicitors, whose office was a few doors further down the high street. Tom and I have shared many a bottle of Vino Collapso at our local wine bar, Et Alia, and he has been a profitable source of business for my firm over the years.
‘Got a good one for you today, old boy,’ he began, ‘suspected fraudulent conversion.’ He rolled his tongue around the phrase as though sampling a particularly fragrant sauvignon blanc. ‘I’ll send the file across.’
He was as good as his word, and a few minutes later, a file was plonked on my desk.
I rapidly delegated the work I had, and gave orders not to be disturbed, then settled down to read. Flicking through the pages, my first surprise was to find