Mightier Than the Sword (15 page)

Sebastian spent a little time considering his response, well aware that all he needed to say was that it was a private matter concerning the bank, and the inspector would have to move on.

“I was checking on a deal, where the chairman had reason to believe that a senior member of staff had been working behind his back.”

“And did you discover that the person was concerned working behind Mr. Hardcastle’s back?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Was that senior member of staff Mr. Adrian Sloane, by any chance?”

Seb remained silent.

“What was Mr. Hardcastle’s attitude, after you told him what you’d found out?”

“He warned me that he intended to sack the person concerned the following day, and advised me to be as far away from the office as possible when he did so.”

“Because he was going to sack your boss?”

“Which is why I was in Amsterdam on Friday evening,” said Seb, ignoring the question. “Which I now regret.”

“Why?”

“Because if I’d gone to the office that day, I just might have been able to save Mr. Hardcastle.”

“Do you believe Mr. Sloane would have saved him, faced with the same circumstances?”

“My father always says that a policeman should never ask a hypothetical question.”

“Not all of us can solve every crime quite as easily as Inspector Warwick.”

“Do you think Sloane murdered Mr. Hardcastle?” asked Seb.

“No, I don’t,” said the inspector. “Although it’s just possible that he could have saved his life. But even Inspector Warwick would find that hard to prove.”

*   *   *

The Rt. Rev. Ashley Tadworth, Bishop of Huddersfield, climbed the half-dozen steps and took his place in the pulpit, during the last verse of “Abide With Me.”

He looked down at the packed congregation and waited until everyone was settled. Some, who hadn’t been able to find a seat, were standing in the aisles, while others, who’d arrived late, were crammed together at the back of the church. It was a mark of the man.

“Funerals are, naturally, sad events,” began the bishop. “Even more so when the departed has achieved little more than leading a blameless life, which can make delivering their eulogy a difficult task. That was not my problem when I prepared my address on the life, the exemplary life, of Cedric Arthur Hardcastle.

“If you were to liken Cedric’s life to a bank statement, he left this world with every account in credit. Where do I begin, to tell you the unlikely tale of this remarkable Yorkshireman?

“Cedric left school at the age of fifteen and joined his father at Farthings Bank. He always called his father ‘sir,’ both at work and at home. In fact, his father retired just in time not to have to call his son ‘sir.’”

A little laughter broke out among the congregation.

“Cedric began his working life as a junior trainee. Two years later he became a teller, even before he was old enough to open a bank account. From there he progressed to undermanager, branch manager, and later, area controller, before becoming the youngest director in the bank’s history. And frankly no one was surprised when he became chairman of the bank at the age of forty-two, a position he held for the past twenty-three years, during which time he took Farthings from being a local bank in a small town in Yorkshire to one of the most respected financial institutions in the City of London.

“But something that would not have changed, even if Cedric had become chairman of the Bank of England, was his constant refrain that if you take care of the pennies, the pounds will take care of themselves.”

*   *   *

“Do you think we’ve got away with it?” asked Sloane nervously.

“If, by that, you’re asking if everything you’ve done in the past four days is legal and above board, the answer is yes.”

“Do we have a quorum?”

“We do,” said Malcolm Atkins, the bank’s chief legal advisor. “The managing director, the company secretary, and six nonexecutive directors are waiting for you in the boardroom. Mind you,” he added, “I’d be fascinated to know what you said to them when they suggested that perhaps they ought to be attending a funeral in Huddersfield today rather than a board meeting in London.”

“I told them quite simply that the choice was theirs. They could vote for a place in this world or the next.”

Atkins smiled and checked his watch. “We should join them. It’s almost ten.”

The two men left Sloane’s office and walked silently down the thickly carpeted corridor. When Sloane entered the boardroom, everyone stood, just as they’d always done for the late chairman.

“Gentlemen,” said the company secretary once they had all settled. “This extraordinary meeting has been called for one purpose, namely…”

*   *   *

“Whenever we think of Cedric Hardcastle,” continued the bishop, “we should remember one thing above all. He was quintessentially a Yorkshireman. If the second coming had taken place at Headingley during the tea interval of a Roses match, he would not have been surprised. It was Cedric’s unswerving belief that Yorkshire was a country, not a county. In fact, he considered Farthings Bank to have become international not when he opened a branch in Hong Kong but when he opened one in Manchester.”

He waited for the laughter to die down before he continued.

“Cedric was not a vain man, but that didn’t stop him being a proud one. Proud of the bank he served every day, and even prouder of how many customers and staff had prospered under his guidance and leadership. So many of you in this congregation today, from the most junior trainee to the president of Sony International, have been beneficiaries of his wisdom and foresight. But what he will most be remembered for is his unquestionable reputation—for honesty, integrity, and decency. Standards he took for granted when dealing with his fellow men. He considered a good deal was one in which both sides made a profit, and would be happy to raise their hats to each other whenever they passed in the street.”

*   *   *

“The one item on today’s agenda,” continued the company secretary, “is for the board to elect a new chairman, following the tragic death of Cedric Hardcastle. Only one name has been proposed, that of Mr. Adrian Sloane, the head of our highly profitable property division. Mr. Sloane has already obtained the legal backing of sixty-six percent of our shareholders, but he felt his appointment should also be ratified by the board.”

Malcolm Atkins came in on cue. “It is my pleasure to propose that Adrian Sloane be the next chairman of Farthings Bank, as I feel that is what Cedric would have wanted.”

“I’m delighted to second that motion,” said Desmond Mellor, a recently appointed non-executive director.

“Those in favor?” said the company secretary. Eight hands shot up. “I declare the motion carried unanimously.”

Sloane rose slowly to his feet. “Gentlemen. Allow me to begin by thanking you for the confidence you have shown by electing me as the next chairman of Farthings. Cedric Hardcastle’s shoes are not easy ones to step into. I replace a man who left us in tragic circumstances. A man we all assumed would be with us for many years to come. A man I could not have admired more. A man I considered not only a colleague, but a friend, which makes me all the more proud to pick up his baton and carry it on the next leg of the bank’s race. I respectfully suggest that we all rise, and bow our heads in memory of a great man.”

*   *   *

“But ultimately,” continued the bishop, “Cedric Hardcastle will best be remembered as a family man. He loved Beryl from the day she gave him an extra third of a pint when she was the milk monitor at their primary school in Huddersfield, and he could not have been more proud when their only son, Arnold, became a QC. Although he could never understand why the lad had chosen Oxford, and not Leeds, to complete his education.

“Allow me to end by summing up my feelings for one of my oldest and dearest friends with the words from the epitaph on Sir Thomas Fairfax by the Duke of Buckingham:

He never knew what envy was, nor hate;

His soul was filled with worth and honesty,

And with another thing besides, quite out of date,

Called modesty.
”

*   *   *

Malcolm Atkins raised a glass of champagne.

“To the new chairman of Farthings,” he toasted, as Sloane sat in the chair behind Cedric’s desk for the first time. “So, what will be your first executive action?”

“Make sure we close the Shifnal deal before anyone else works out why it’s so cheap at one point six million.”

“And your second?” asked Mellor.

“Sack Sebastian Clifton,” he spat out, “along with anyone else who was close to Hardcastle and went along with his outdated philosophy. This bank is about to join the real world, where profits, not people, will be its only mantra. And if any customers threaten to move their account, let them, especially if they’re from Yorkshire. From now on, the bank’s motto will be,
If you’ve only got pennies, don’t bother to bank with us.
”

*   *   *

Sebastian bowed his head as the pallbearers lowered the coffin into the grave so no one would see his tears. Ross Buchanan didn’t attempt to hide his feelings. Emma and Harry held hands. They had all lost a good and wise friend.

As they walked slowly away from the graveside, Arnold Hardcastle and his mother joined them.

“Why wasn’t Adrian Sloane here?” asked Ross. “Not to mention half a dozen other directors?”

“Father wouldn’t have missed Sloane,” said Arnold. “He was just about to sack him before he died.”

“He told you that?” said Ross.

“Yes. He rang me early on Friday morning to find out what the legal position was if the head of a department was caught using the bank’s money to carry out private deals.”

“Did he say which head of department?” asked Ross.

“He didn’t need to.”

“Did you say six directors?” interrupted Emma.

“Yes,” said Ross. “Why’s that important?”

“It constitutes a quorum. If Cedric were still alive, he would have spotted what Sloane was up to.”

“Oh my God. Now I realize why he needed me to sign those documents,” said Beryl. “Cedric will never forgive me.”

“Like you, I’m appalled, Mother, but don’t worry, you still own fifty-one percent of the bank.”

“Can someone kindly explain in simple English,” asked Harry, “what you’re all talking about?”

“Adrian Sloane has just appointed himself as the new chairman of Farthings,” said Sebastian. “Where’s the nearest phone?”

13

S
EBASTIAN CHECKED
his watch. Just enough time to make one call. He was relieved to find the only phone box within sight was empty, and wasn’t out of order. He dialed a number he knew by heart.

“Victor Kaufman.”

“Vic, it’s Seb.”

“Seb, hi. You sound as if you’re phoning from the other side of the world.”

“Not quite. I’m at Huddersfield station. I’ve just been to Cedric Hardcastle’s funeral.”

“I read his obituary in today’s
FT.
That was one hell of a man you were working for.”

“You don’t know the half of it. Which is why I’m calling. I need to see your father urgently.”

“Just give his secretary a call, and I’ll make sure she fixes an appointment.”

“What I want to discuss can’t wait. I need to see him this evening, tomorrow morning at the latest.”

“Am I sensing a big deal?”

“The biggest ever to cross my desk.”

“Then I’ll speak to him immediately. When will you be back in London?”

“My train’s due to arrive at Euston at ten past four.”

“Give me a call from the station and I’ll—”

A shrill whistle blew and Seb turned to see a green flag waving. He dropped the phone, ran out on to the platform, and jumped onto the moving train.

He took a seat at the rear of the carriage and, once he’d got his breath back, he thought about how he’d first met Vic at St. Bede’s, when he’d shared a study with him and Bruno Martinez, and they had become his two closest friends; one the son of an immigrant Jew, and the other the son of an Argentinian arms dealer. Over the years they’d become inseparable. That friendship grew even closer when Seb had ended up with a black eye for defending his Jewish friend, not that he had been altogether sure what a Jew was. Like a blind man, unaware of race or religion, he quickly discovered that prejudice was often taught at the breakfast table.

He turned his attention to the sage advice his mother had given him just before she and Dad had driven back to Bristol after the funeral. He knew she was right.

Seb took his time writing a first draft, then a second. By the time the train pulled into Euston, he’d completed a final draft which he hoped would meet with both his mother’s and Cedric’s approval.

*   *   *

Sloane immediately recognized the handwriting. He tore open the envelope and pulled out a letter, becoming angrier with each word he read.

Dear Mr. Sloane,

You may think you’ve got away with it, but I can assure you, you haven’t, because I will not rest until you are exposed for the fraud you are, as we both know you are the last person Cedric would have wanted to succeed him.

After reading this letter, you won’t be surprised to learn that I no longer want to work for an amoral charlatan like you.

Sloane leapt out of his chair, unable to control his temper. He charged into his secretary’s office and shouted, “Is he still in the building?”

“Who?” asked Rachel innocently.

“Clifton, who else?”

“I haven’t seen him since he handed me a letter and asked me to put it on your desk.”

Sloane marched out of his office and down the corridor, still hoping to find Clifton at his desk so he could publicly sack him.

“Where’s Clifton?” he demanded as he strode into Sebastian’s room. Bobby Rushton, Seb’s young assistant, looked up at the new chairman, and was so petrified he couldn’t get any words out. “Are you deaf?” said Sloane. “Didn’t you hear what I said? Where’s Clifton?”