Mightier Than the Sword (17 page)

“Did you read the
Financial Times
this morning?” he said, even before Seb had closed the door.

“Only the front page and the property section. Why?”

“Because we’re about to find out if Mr. Swann’s prediction is correct.” Seb didn’t interrupt Kaufman’s flow. “It seems the transport minister will be making a statement in the House at three o’clock this afternoon. Perhaps you and Victor should go along and hear what he has to say, then call and let me know if I’ve made or lost a fortune.”

As soon as Seb returned to his office, he called Uncle Giles at the Commons and asked if he could arrange a couple of tickets for the Strangers’ Gallery that afternoon, so he and a friend could hear the statement by the minister of transport.

“I’ll leave them in Central Lobby,” said Giles.

After he’d put the phone down, Giles studied the order paper, and wondered why Sebastian would be interested in a decision that would only affect a handful of people living in Shropshire.

*   *   *

Seb and Vic were seated in the fourth row of the Strangers’ Gallery long before the minister rose to deliver his statement. Uncle Giles smiled up at them from the government benches, still puzzled as to what would be in the statement that could possibly be of any interest to his nephew.

The two young bankers were sitting on the edge of the green leather bench when the Speaker called for the Secretary of State for Transport to deliver his statement to the House.

“Mr. Speaker,” the minister began, as he gripped the dispatch box, “I rise to inform the House which route has been selected by my department for the proposed motorway extension that will run through the county of Shropshire.”

If the word
SILENCE
hadn’t been displayed in bold on the wood-panelled walls, Seb would have leapt in the air when the minister referred to the outskirts of Shifnal, including Shifnal Farm, as a section of the route for the proposed new motorway.

Once the minister had dealt with several questions from local members, he resumed his place on the front bench to allow a debate on foreign affairs to begin.

Seb and Vic had no interest in whether the government intended to impose economic sanctions on South Africa, so they slipped quietly out of the Strangers’ Gallery, made their way downstairs to the central lobby, and out onto Parliament Square. That’s when Seb leapt in the air and screamed, “We did it!”

*   *   *

Samantha was reading the
Guardian
when a sleepy Sebastian appeared for breakfast the following morning.

“Where were you last night?” she asked. “I didn’t even hear you come in.”

“Vic and I were out celebrating. Sorry, I should have called to let you know.”

“Celebrating what?” asked Sam, but Seb didn’t answer as he helped himself to a bowl of cornflakes.

“Could it possibly be that Mr. Swann worked out that the new motorway would go straight through the middle of Shifnal Farm and, to quote the
Guardian
,” said Sam, looking down at the article in front of her, “make a small fortune for a handful of speculators?” She handed the newspaper to Seb, who only glanced at the headline.

“You have to understand,” said Seb between mouthfuls, “this means we’ll now have enough money to buy a house in Chelsea.”

“But will there be enough money left over for Mr. Swann to build his theatre in Shifnal?”

“That depends…”

“On what? You gave him your word that if the information he supplied turned out to be correct, you would pay him the £8,234 he needed to complete his theatre.”

“But I only earn four thousand a year,” protested Seb.

“And you’re about to be given a bonus of forty thousand.”

“On which I’ll have to pay capital gains tax.”

“Not on a charitable donation, you won’t.”

“But there was nothing in writing.”

“Seb, did you hear what you just said?”

“In any case,” added Seb quickly, “it’s Mr. Kaufman who will make the small fortune, not me.”

“And it was Mr. Kaufman who took the risk in the first place, and could have
lost
a small fortune. Whereas you had nothing to lose, and everything to gain.”

“You don’t understand—” began Seb.

“I understand only too well,” said Sam as Seb pushed his bowl aside and got up from the table.

“I ought to be going,” he said. “I’m already late, and I’ve got a lot to do today.”

“Like deciding how to spend the money Mr. Swann has made for you?”

He leaned down to kiss her, but she turned away.

“The truth is, you never had any intention of paying Mr. Swann, did you?”

Seb made no attempt to answer her question as he turned and walked quickly toward the door.

“Can’t you see that if you don’t pay Mr. Swann, you’ll be just as bad as Adrian Sloane?” said Sam with feeling.

Seb didn’t reply as he picked up his briefcase and hurried out of the flat without saying goodbye. Once he was safely out on the street, he hailed a taxi. As it made its way along City Road he began to wonder how long it would be before, like Saul Kaufman, he had his own car and driver. But his mind kept returning to Sam and her words: “you’ll be just as bad as Adrian Sloane.”

He would book a table for two at the Mirabelle tonight, when they would talk about anything but banking. During his lunch break he would visit Mr. Gard in Hatton Garden and buy that marcasite brooch. Then surely Sam would begin to appreciate the advantages of being engaged to Sebastian Clifton.

*   *   *

“Your usual table, Mr. Kaufman?”

Seb wondered how long it would be before the head waiter would say to him, “Your usual table, Mr. Clifton?”

Over lunch in the Grill Room, he told the chairman he’d already spotted one or two other properties whose sellers seemed unaware of their true value.

After a lunch at which he’d drunk a little too much, he took a taxi to Hatton Garden. Mr. Gard opened the safe and pulled out the third tray from the top. Seb was delighted to see it was still there: a Victorian marcasite brooch surrounded by diamonds that he was sure Sam would find irresistible.

In the taxi on his way back to Islington, he felt confident that over dinner at the Mirabelle, he could bring her around to his way of thinking.

When he put the key in the lock, his first thought was, we won’t be living here much longer, but when he opened the door, he was puzzled to find that all the lights were out. Could Sam be attending an evening lecture? The moment he switched on the light, he sensed that something was wrong. Something was missing, but what? He sobered up instantly when he realized that several personal objects, including the photograph of the two of them in Central Park, one of Jessica’s drawings, and Sam’s print of
The Night Watch,
were nowhere to be seen.

He rushed through to their bedroom and flung open the cupboards on Sam’s side of the bed. Empty. He looked under the bed, to find her suitcases were no longer there.

“No, no,” he screamed as he ran out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, where he saw the envelope. It was propped up against a small red leather box and addressed to Sebastian. He tore it open and pulled out a letter that was written in her strong, bold hand.

Dearest Seb,

The man who was so proud to work alongside Cedric Hardcastle and despised everything Adrian Sloane stood for is not the same man who now feels he has no obligation to Mr. Swann, the one person who made it possible for him to receive such a handsome bonus. Have you forgotten Mr. Swann’s words, “If Harry Clifton is your father, that’s good enough for me?”

If only Cedric were alive today, none of this would have happened, because you know he would have made sure you kept your side of the bargain and if you hadn’t he would have kept it for you.

I have no doubt that your career will continue to go from strength to strength, and that you will be an outstanding success at everything you do. But that’s not the kind of success I want to be a part of.

I fell in love with the son of Harry and Emma Clifton, the brother of Jessica Clifton, which is one of the many reasons I wanted to be the wife of Sebastian Clifton. But that man no longer exists. Despite everything, I will treasure our short time together for the rest of my life.

Sebastian fell to his knees, the words of Sam’s father ringing in his ears. “Samantha sets standards, like your mother, that the rest of us normal mortals find hard to live with, unless, like your father, they’re guided by the same moral compass.”

LADY VIRGINIA FENWICK

1966

15

“I
’LL SEE IF HER LADYSHIP
is at home,” said the butler.

What a ridiculous remark, thought Lady Virginia. Morton knows only too well that I’m at home. What he actually means is, I’ll find out if her ladyship wants to talk to you.

“Who is it, Morton?” she asked as the butler entered the room.

“Mrs. Priscilla Bingham, my lady.”

“Of course I’m at home to Mrs. Bingham,” said Virginia, picking up the phone by her side. “Priscilla, darling.”

“Virginia, darling.”

“It’s been so long.”

“Far too long, and I’ve so much to tell you.”

“Why don’t you pop up and spend a few days in London? It will be just like old times. We can go shopping, catch a show, try out one or two new restaurants, and even visit Annabel’s, where one just has to be seen, darling.”

“Sounds terrific. I’ll check my diary and ring you back.”

Virginia put down the phone and thought about her friend. They hadn’t seen much of each other since her last visit to Mablethorpe Hall, when Priscilla’s husband Robert had behaved so badly. And worse, since then, Robert had gone over to the other side and joined the enemy. He not only sat on the board of Barrington Shipping but had played a part in ensuring that Major Fisher, Virginia’s representative, had been summarily dismissed from the board. To make matters worse, he’d insisted that Priscilla accompany him on the
Buckingham
’s maiden voyage to New York, despite Virginia telling her that she had been refused a first-class cabin.

When Priscilla returned home a fortnight later, she told Virginia that something had gone badly wrong on the first night of the voyage, but Robert refused to confide in her. Virginia vowed to get to the bottom of it, but that would have to wait because for the moment it was not Emma Clifton she had in her sights, but Bob Bingham.

When Priscilla turned up at Virginia’s flat a few days later, she recited a litany of disasters that had taken place during the voyage, including a dreadful dinner she’d had to endure with that frightful social climber, Emma Clifton. The food was inedible, the wine was corked, and the staff might as well have come from Butlin’s. However, Priscilla assured Virginia that on more than one occasion she had put Mrs. Clifton firmly in her place.

“And did you find out what really happened on the first night?” asked Virginia.

“No, but I did hear Robert say to one of the other directors that if the truth ever got out, the chairman would have to resign and the company could even face bankruptcy. That would certainly help with your libel trial.”

Virginia hadn’t told her friend that the case was on hold because her extremely expensive lawyers considered her chances of winning not much better than fifty-fifty, and her latest bank statement reminded her that she wasn’t in a strong enough financial position to risk that. However, what she had planned for Bob Bingham was not fifty-fifty. He would end up having to part with at least half of his entire fortune, with a twist. And once she’d dealt with him, Virginia would then turn her attention to Emma Clifton and the Home Fleet incident. But if her plan for Bob Bingham was to succeed, she would once again have to enlist the services of Major Alex Fisher, someone who hated the Barrington family almost as much as she did.

*   *   *

Bob Bingham was not pleased when Priscilla announced she would be staying at their house in The Boltons for a few days so she could spend some time with Virginia. He sensed that that woman was up to something, and it wasn’t too difficult to work out what she might have in mind.

The only good thing about Priscilla being away for a week was that it would give him a chance to invite Clive to join him for a few days at Mablethorpe Hall. Clive had recently been promoted and no longer relied on Bob to subsidize him. In fact, Jessica’s tragic death may have been the reason he had become so fiercely independent. Bob had seen too little of his son since that dreadful night when Jessica Clifton had taken her own life, and it would never have happened if Priscilla hadn’t invited that conniving woman to spend the weekend with them. It was only later that his wife admitted that Virginia had originally turned down the invitation, but had changed her mind when she heard that Jessica Clifton would be among the guests, and that Clive was planning to propose to her that weekend.

Bob tried to push that vile woman out of his mind as he wanted to concentrate on the minutes of Barrington’s most recent board meeting. He agreed with young Sebastian—he must stop thinking of him in those terms—after all, he had already proved himself to be a capable director, and few of the board doubted that, in time, he would become the next chairman of the company. And if his new lifestyle was anything to go by, he was clearly doing well at Kaufman’s, even if his father had hinted that his personal life was a mess.

Bob Bingham and Harry Clifton had become friends during the past few years, which had seemed unlikely, considering how little they had in common other than Jessica. Harry was a renaissance man, a man of letters, whose constant stand on behalf of Anatoly Babakov had captured the public’s imagination. Bob, on the other hand, was a man of business, of balance sheets, who only ever read a book when he was on holiday. Perhaps it was simply the game of cricket that brought the two men together, except on those occasions when Gloucestershire played Yorkshire.