Empress Bianca (31 page)

Taking Manolito by one hand and Anna Clara by the other, she walked into the first Calorblanco store she had been into since leaving Ferdie. This one she knew especially well. She headed for the north-east side, but when she reached the spot where Ferdie’s portrait had once been, she saw a head and shoulders colour photograph of Bianca glamorously bedecked in a parure of emeralds and diamonds. Beneath the lavishly carved gilt frame, where once there had been a bronze plaque commemorating the occasion upon which Ferdie had opened the shop, there was a new brass plaque that stated simply and sparingly that it was a likeness of the chairman of the board, Bianca Barnett de Piedraplata, taken by Antony, Earl of Snowdon. Amanda was pleased to see that Bianca had resisted the temptation to point out to the ignorant that the photographer was the husband of the Queen of England’s sister Princess Margaret. She grimaced, however, at the showiness above the frame, for there, for all to see and be impressed by, was the company emblem of the white flame topped by a coronet, which, if Amanda’s genealogical memory was correct, had the number of points assigned to an English baron. ‘She doesn’t even have the good grace to let poor Ferdie keep recognition for his accomplishments,’ she involuntarily observed. ‘And she calls herself a lady. What a piece of work she is…and such a phoney too! She’s not entitled to a coronet, and neither is that father of hers who can’t even speak English properly.’

With that, Amanda shuddered, took Manolito by the hand and walked out into the blinding Mexican sunshine.

‘I didn’t see Daddy’s picture, but I saw Mama’s,’ Manolito murmured.

F
rom the outside, the High Courts of Justice on The Strand look like a vast complex of buildings covering what would be in New York an array of several Avenue blocks. As you step in off the street, there is the vast central hall, as long and wide as a football pitch, off which runs a rabbit warren of cold stone corridors leading to the panelled courtrooms. It is very easy to get lost, even if you know the place quite well, so Henry Spencer took the sensible precaution of having his clerk meet Clara and Rodolfo outside the main entrance on The Strand.

Clara and Rodolfo pulled up in the Piedraplata Rolls Royce promptly at nine-fifteen on the morning of the Wednesday following Easter for the second day of the trial. The Rolls was one of the few family possessions that she had managed to retain, having taken it out of storage shortly after arriving in England after Ferdie’s death. Thereafter, she ‘declined’ - to use her word - to return it to the storage facility where Bianca would undoubtedly seize it, as she had seized so much else. It was, Clara recognized, a small victory, but it was a victory nevertheless, and she needed to see that she was making some headway against her sister-in-law and Philippe Mahfud.

The case had begun the day before, on Tuesday, April 24 1973, and it
had gone well. The morning had been taken up with legal arguments before Mr Justice Landsworth, during which Clara and Rodolfo had sat in the same row of benches no more than three feet away from Bianca, resplendent between her new husband Ion Antonescu and Philippe Mahfud, who Clara had no doubt was still the man in her life.

After lunch Conkers Coningby had opened the case for the Plaintiff by calling Clara to the stand. His examination of her had been brilliant, eliciting answer after answer that drove home the point that Bianca and Philippe were opportunists who were seeking to deny the documentary evidence. Clara had been a good witness too. Lucid. To the point. Calm.

At four-thirty sharp, while Clara was answering a complicated question about the way her shares and her mother’s had been registered in the various Calorblanco subsidiaries, Mr Justice Landsworth had looked at his watch ostentatiously, peered down at Conkers Coningby, held up his hand to Clara and said theatrically: ‘Counsel, I take it there will be no more questions after the Marchesa has answered this last one, and we can call it a day till ten-thirty tomorrow morning?’

‘My Lord,’ Conkers Coningby had said, nodding his bewigged head and rushing Clara through her answer before being excused from the witness box with the warning that, as she was still under oath, she could not discuss the case with anyone, including her own legal representatives.

Conkers escorted Clara out of court, repeating as they went the judge’s warning about not discussing the case. ‘But of course, we can discuss anything else,’ he said, and waiting until they were in the icy, tiled corridor which held the chill and fear of centuries of trials, said pointedly to Rodolfo, ‘I take it this isn’t being too much of a strain.’ Clara rightly took this to be his way of circumventing the judge’s dictat while conveying approval for her performance. Realizing that he might also be hinting that he could speak openly to Rodolfo, who could then pass on his comments to his wife without any of them fearing breaching the judge’s interdict, Clara excused herself and went to the ladies’ room.

‘You can be proud of your wife,’ Conkers said as soon as she had walked off. ‘She’s acquitting herself admirably.’

‘It’s difficult for me to judge…but if you say so.’

‘It’s always a pleasure to look across a courtroom and see furrowed brows,’ Conkers said. ‘Did you see how the other side’s expressions became increasingly worried the deeper we probed into the Beneficial Ownership
question?’

‘At one stage, it looked as if Sir Alfred wanted to throw his pitcher of water at his instructing solicitor,’ Adrian Clewth said with some amusement.

Conkers laughed. ‘That wouldn’t have gone down well with old Landsworth.’

‘I should say not,’ Adrian Clewth agreed, his face contorted with pleasure as the two men guffawed. The real reason for his disapproval was that Bianca’s instructing solicitor was none other than Mary Landsworth, a partner in the firm of Darter and Co, and the wife of Mr Justice Landsworth.

Clara rejoined the men while their banter continued. ‘I didn’t think it was a good idea for Mrs Antonescu to be poking Sir Alfred with a ruler to capture his attention,’ Adrian Clewth said, reminding Clara for all the world of a schoolboy speaking about his headmaster. ‘Especially when her solicitor was sitting right beside her and she’s meant to convey all instructions through him. I thought Mr Justice Landsworth was going to chew her head off.’

Conkers Coningby laughed. ‘He very nearly did,’ he said, mimicking him in adolescent fashion, ‘“Mrs Antonescu, will you please desist from paying such strict attention to Counsel’s sleeve and provide instructions in the conventional manner…”’

Just then, Bianca, Philippe and their legal teams stepped out of the courtroom into the passage. Sir Alfred led the way. He walked up to Conkers Coningby. ‘I say, old boy,’ he murmured. ‘Could we have a quiet word?’

‘Excuse me,’ Conkers said to Clara and Rodolfo and left them with Adrian Clewth. ‘They’re old chums,’ the latter explained for the benefit of these foreign clients who might consider it odd that their Silk was going to have a
tête-à-tête
with the opposition’s Silk. ‘Most likely they’re arranging a game of golf for the weekend or some such thing.’

‘As long as their friendship doesn’t affect Lord Ralph’s ability to prosecute my case, that’s fine,’ said Clara.

‘Heaven forbid,’ Adrian Clewth said. ‘All good barristers leave their personal feelings out of their cases. It’s the only way the system can work. That, and Chinese walls.’

‘Chinese walls?’ Rodolfo said.

‘Chinese walls. The system whereby each barrister erects a wall of probity around himself, so that no other barrister has access to him or his information, save those on the same side as himself. The British legal system couldn’t work without Chinese walls. Not when members of the same set of chambers are pitched against each other. It’s a question of integrity. Barristers have to be men of the utmost integrity.’

‘You mean barristers from the same chambers oppose each other?’ Clara said.

‘Absolutely. There’s nothing exceptional about Sir Alfred and Lord Ralph being from the same set of chambers.’

‘You mean that Lord Ralph and Sir Alfred share the same chambers?’ Clara said slowly and deliberately, hoping that by accentuating her foreignness she would conceal the degree of perturbation she was experiencing.

‘Absolutely. Nothing at all unusual about that.’

‘So who’s senior?’ Rodolfo asked, coming to Clara’s rescue.

‘Sir Alfred. It’s his chambers. Lord Ralph is second in order of precedence. Not that that means anything in terms of his success rate.’

Clara saw Conkers Coningby heading jauntily back towards them, a smile on his face. ‘Thanks for putting us straight on your fascinating legal system,’ she said, wrapping up the conversation before her Silk had a chance to overhear what they were speaking about.

‘Did Sir Alfred have any settlement offers to make?’ Clara said.

‘We should be so lucky,’ Conkers said. ‘We’re in for the long haul here.’

‘He made that clear?’ Clara said.

‘With people like Sir Alfred, it’s not what they say so much as how they say it. He’s a master of inference. I don’t know if that answers your question. He certainly didn’t actually say it, but one can read between the lines. Tomorrow’s another day, though, so why don’t we all get a good night’s sleep and meet at nine-thirty in the cafeteria for some coffee and a conference? My Clerk knows where it is. He’ll meet you on the pavement and escort you in, won’t you, Rowbotham?’ With that, Conkers Coningsby led the way downstairs, robes billowing magisterially.

Clara knew she was being reassured, and she hoped that her failure to be fully mollified by the reassurance was simply over-scepticism, but she had a nagging feeling that something was going on which she did not understand. She would see how correct her intuition had been the
following morning.

Conkers Coningsby and Adrian Clewth were already ensconced upon opposing wooden benches when Rowbotham escorted Rodolfo and Clara to the Formica table where they had scattered their papers, Styrofoam cups of very bad coffee and paper plates holding Danish pastries that looked as if they were left over from the Viking invasions.

Conkers and Adrian stood up as the Silk greeted them. ‘So sorry you can’t partake until you’ve finished your evidence, Marchesa,’ he said. ‘But the Marchese can join us if you don’t mind sitting over there.’ He pointed to an adjoining table. ‘Here, have some coffee and pastry. We’re already stuck in. This promises to be a sticky day.’ Where his conduct had inspired confidence yesterday, it now created anxiety.

Once more dogged by doubt, Clara sat down and tried as best she could to follow the legal complexities that Conkers was addressing supposedly out of earshot. ‘What I don’t understand,’ Rodolfo said, ‘is how the Beneficial Ownership is such a problem now, yet it wasn’t last Thursday when we had that conference at Henry Spencer’s Chambers, nor was it yesterday afternoon outside Court when you thought it was plain sailing.’

‘Good point, Rodolfo,’ Clara thought, smiling to herself.

‘I’m afraid we can’t speak about this in front of your wife,’ Conkers replied.

‘I’ll go and sit down over there, then,’ Clara said, pointing to a table at the opposite end of the room.

‘Capital idea,’ Conkers said and waited while Clara walked off. ‘The thing about cases is that they develop in unexpected ways,’ he continued. ‘What you don’t think is going to be a problem can suddenly become one, while what you anticipate as being a difficulty, doesn’t materialize as such.’

Having concluding his rather patronizing discourse, Conkers returned his gaze to Adrian Clewth, and continued to preach about the choppy seas ahead, making a great show of flipping through one massive legal textbook after another.

Seeing the futility of staying with them, Rodolfo rose from his seat. ‘I think I’ll join my wife,’ he said.

I do apologize not to be able to give you more of my attention,’ Conkers replied, ‘but as you can see, we’re pretty busy.’

Rodolfo nodded his head politely.

‘I wish I could shake off the feeling that something’s going on behind the scenes that we’re not privy to,’ Clara said as soon as he slipped in beside her.

‘Maybe he’s trying to justify his vast fees,’ Rodolfo said. ‘Men often make things seem more difficult than they are to confuse ladies into thinking they’re working harder than they are.’

‘Maybe,’ Clara said. ‘This sort of production doesn’t inspire confidence, though.’

When court reassembled at ten-thirty, she re-entered the witness box.

Mr Justice Landsworth leaned over and said smilingly: ‘Marchesa, you will remember that you are still under oath.’

‘Thank you, My Lord,’ Clara said and turned to face Conkers.

‘Now, Marchesa,’ he began, his thumbs stuck in the sides of his black gown. ‘Yesterday you were telling us about how the Beneficial Ownership papers came to be signed.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Am I right in thinking that a consideration would have been Foreign Exchange Control Regulations?’

Clara could barely believe what she had just heard. What business did her own Silk have bringing up the fact that she, her mother and her late brother might have been circumventing foreign exchange control regulations? Surely he had to realize that you do not prosecute a case by stating that your client might be bending inconvenient laws for her own financial benefit?

‘I don’t understand the question,’ Clara said, stalling for time while she thought up an answer.

Conkers looked rather irritated, as if his prey were avoiding his trap.

‘That’s perfectly all right. We understand that English is not your native tongue, so I’ll repeat myself:were you and your mother and brother trying to get around various countries’ Foreign Exchange Controls by establishing a series of interlocking Nominee and Beneficial Ownership Agreements for your family companies?’

‘Is this man crazy?’ she asked herself. ‘Just who is he representing? Me or Bianca and Philippe?’

Clara, however, never buckled under pressure. Instead she felt a sense of calm settle over her. ‘Lord Ralph,’ she said icily, ‘my mother, my brother
and I were each other’s Nominees and were the Beneficial Owners of our family companies because they were family companies. They were owned by all of us. My brother and I had equal shares. We took the very best legal advice available and allowed ourselves to be guided by those experts, some of whom, I venture to say, might even be your colleagues.’

‘Thank you, Marchesa,’ Conkers said, looking mollified. ‘That will be all from me. But please remain standing as Sir Alfred would doubtless like the opportunity of asking you one or two questions.’

With that, Conkers sat down and busied himself with his papers, once more behaving in a manner that suggested to Clara that she was now on her own. Sir Alfred stood up. He was a short, amiable-looking man with a complexion that proclaimed a love of port. ‘Marchesa d’Offolo, you’ve told this court that the documents relating to Beneficial Ownership confirm that you owned an equal share of Calorblanco and Banco Imperiale with your brother and that your mother owns a share equal to that of your late brother. Is that correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘The documents also show that you were your brother’s Nominee and he was yours. That is correct too, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘So, in the event of the demise of one, the other’s share fell into the lap of the remaining sibling?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is not such an arrangement unorthodox?’

‘I don’t know what you mean by “unorthodox”. When you’re dealing with multinational companies, you can’t have parochial arrangements. As I said to Lord Ralph, we took top legal advice. Everything we did was in accordance with the laws of the countries in which we function.’