Once the chairman had put his case, he called upon Emma to present the contrary view. She began by suggesting that while the bank rate was at an all-time high, the company should be consolidating its position, and not risking such a large financial outlay on something that, in her opinion, had at best a 50/50 chance of succeeding.
Mr. Anscott, a non-executive director who had been appointed to the board by Sir Hugo Barrington, her late father, suggested it was time to push the boat out. No one laughed. Rear Admiral Summers felt they shouldn’t go ahead with such a radical decision without the shareholders’ approval.
“It is we who are on the bridge,” Buchanan reminded the admiral, “and therefore we who should be making the decisions.” The admiral scowled, but offered no further comment. After all, his vote would speak for itself.
Emma listened carefully as each member of the board gave his opinion, and quickly realized that the directors were evenly divided. One or two hadn’t yet made up their minds, but she suspected that if it came to a vote, the chairman would prevail.
An hour later, the board were no nearer to making a decision, with some of the directors simply repeating their earlier arguments, which clearly irritated Buchanan. But Emma knew he would eventually have to move on, as there was other important business that needed to be discussed.
“I am bound to say,” said the chairman in his summing up, “that we can’t put off making a decision for much longer, and therefore I suggest we all go away and think carefully about where we stand on this particular issue. Frankly, the future of the company is at stake. I propose that when we meet again next month, we take a vote on whether to put the job out to tender, or to drop the whole idea.”
“Or at least wait until calmer waters prevail,” suggested Emma.
The chairman reluctantly moved on, and as the remaining items on the agenda were far less contentious, by the time Buchanan asked if there was any other business a more relaxed atmosphere had replaced the earlier heated debate.
“I have one piece of information that it is my duty to report to the board,” said the company secretary. “You cannot have failed to notice that our share price has been rising steadily over the past few weeks, and you may well have wondered why, as we have made no significant announcements or issued any profit forecasts recently. Well, yesterday that mystery was solved when I received a letter from the manager of the Midland Bank in St. James’s, Mayfair, informing me that one of his clients was in possession of seven and a half percent of the company’s stock, and therefore would be appointing a director to represent them on the board.”
“Let me guess,” said Emma. “None other than Major Alex Fisher.”
“I fear so,” said the chairman, uncharacteristically lowering his guard.
“And are there any prizes for guessing who the good major will be representing?” asked the admiral.
“None,” replied Buchanan, “because you’d be wrong. Although I must confess that when I first heard the news, like you, I assumed it would be our old friend, Lady Virginia Fenwick. However, the manager of the Midland assures me that her ladyship is not one of the bank’s clients. When I pressed him on the subject of who owned the shares, he said politely that he was unable to disclose that information, which is banking parlance for mind your own business.”
“I can’t wait to discover how the major will cast his vote on the proposed building of the Buckingham,” said Emma with a wry smile, “because of one thing we can be sure. Whoever he represents certainly won’t have the Barrington’s interests at heart.”
“Be assured, Emma, I wouldn’t want that little shit to be the person who tipped the balance either way,” said Buchanan.
Emma was speechless.
Another of the chairman’s admirable qualities was his ability to put any disagreements, however strongly felt, to one side once a board meeting was over.
“So what’s the latest news on Sebastian?” he asked as he joined Emma for a pre-lunch drink.
“Matron declares herself well satisfied with his progress. I’m delighted to say that I can see a visible improvement every time I visit the hospital. The cast on his left leg has been removed, and he now has two eyes and an opinion on everything, from why his uncle Giles is the right man to replace Gaitskell as leader of the Labor Party, to why parking meters are nothing more than another government ploy to extract more of our hard-earned money.”
“I agree with him on both counts,” said Ross. “Let’s hope his exuberance is the prelude to a full recovery.”
“His surgeon seems to think so. Mr. Owen told me that modern surgery made rapid advances during the war because so many soldiers needed to be operated on without the time to seek second and third opinions. Thirty years ago, Seb would have ended up in a wheelchair for the rest of his life, but not today.”
“Is he still hoping to go up to Cambridge next Michaelmas?”
“I think so. He recently had a visit from his supervisor, who told him that he could take up his place at Peterhouse in September. He even gave him some books to read.”
“Well, he can’t pretend there’s a whole lot to distract him.”
“Funny you should mention that,” said Emma, “because he’s recently begun to take a great deal of interest in the company’s fortunes, which comes as something of a surprise. In fact, he reads the minutes of every board meeting from cover to cover. He’s even bought ten shares, which gives him the legal right to follow our every move, and I can tell you, Ross, he’s not shy in expressing his views, not least on the proposed building of the Buckingham.”
“No doubt influenced by his mother’s well-known opinion on the subject,” said Buchanan, smiling.
“No, that’s the strange thing,” said Emma. “Someone else seems to be advising him on that particular subject.”
* * *
Emma burst out laughing.
Harry looked up from the other end of the breakfast table and put down his newspaper. “As I can’t find anything even remotely amusing in The Times this morning, do share the joke with me.”
Emma took a sip of coffee before returning to the Daily Express.
“It seems that Lady Virginia Fenwick, only daughter of the ninth Earl of Fenwick, has issued divorce proceedings against the Count of Milan. William Hickey is suggesting that Virginia will receive a settlement of around two hundred and fifty thousand pounds, plus their flat in Lowndes Square, as well as the country estate in Berkshire.”
“Not a bad return for two years’ work.”
“And of course Giles gets a mention.”
“That’s always going to be the case whenever Virginia makes the headlines.”
“Yes, but it’s quite flattering for a change,” she said, returning to the newspaper. “‘Lady Virginia’s first husband, Sir Giles Barrington, Member of Parliament for Bristol Docklands, is widely tipped to be a cabinet minister should Labor win the next election.’”
“I think that’s unlikely.”
“That Giles will be a cabinet minister?”
“No, that Labor will win the next election.”
“‘He has proved to be a formidable front bench spokesman,’” Emma continued, “‘and has recently become engaged to Dr. Gwyneth Hughes, a lecturer at King’s College, London.’ Great picture of Gwyneth, ghastly photo of Virginia.”
“Virginia won’t like that,” said Harry, returning to The Times. “But there’s not a lot she can do about it now.”
“Don’t be so sure of that,” said Emma. “I have a feeling the sting has not yet been fully extracted from that particular scorpion.”
* * *
Harry and Emma drove up from Gloucestershire to Harlow every Sunday to visit Sebastian, with Jessica always in tow, as she never missed an opportunity to see her big brother. Every time Emma turned left out of the Manor House gates to begin the long drive to the Princess Alexandra Hospital, she could never shake off the memory of the first time she’d made that journey, when she’d thought her son had been k
illed in a car crash. Emma was only thankful that she hadn’t phoned Grace or Giles to tell them the news, and that Jessica had been camping in the Quantocks with the Girl Guides when the tutor rang. Only poor Harry had spent twenty-four hours believing he would never see his son again.
Jessica considered the visits to Sebastian to be the highlight of her week. On arriving at the hospital, she would present him with her latest work of art, and after having covered every inch of his plaster casts with images of the Manor House, family and friends, she moved on to the hospital walls. Matron hung every new picture in the corridor outside the ward, but admitted that it wouldn’t be too long before they would have to migrate down the staircase to the floor below. Emma could only hope that Sebastian would be released before Jessica’s offerings reached the reception area. She always felt a little embarrassed whenever her daughter presented Matron with her latest effort.
“No need to feel embarrassed, Mrs. Clifton,” said Miss Puddicombe. “You should see some of the daubs I’m presented with by doting parents, who expect them to be hung in my office. In any case, when Jessica becomes an RA, I shall sell them all and build a new ward with the proceeds.”
Emma didn’t need to be reminded how talented her daughter was, as she knew Miss Fielding, her art mistress at Red Maids’, had plans to enter her for a scholarship to the Slade School of Fine Art, and seemed confident of the outcome.
“It’s quite a challenge, Mrs. Clifton, to have to teach someone who you know is far more talented than you are,” Miss Fielding had once told her.
“Don’t ever let her know that,” said Emma.
“Everyone knows it,” replied Miss Fielding, “and we’re all looking forward to greater things in the future. No one will be surprised when she’s offered a place at the Royal Academy Schools, a first for Red Maids’.”
Jessica appeared blissfully unaware of her rare talent, as she was of so many other things, thought Emma. She had repeatedly warned Harry that it could only be a matter of time before their adopted daughter stumbled upon the truth about who her father was, and suggested that it would be better if she heard it from a member of the family first, rather than a stranger. Harry seemed strangely reluctant to burden her with the real reason they had plucked her out of the Dr. Barnardo’s home all those years ago, ignoring several more obvious candidates. Giles and Grace had both volunteered to explain to Jessica how they all came to share the same father, Sir Hugo Barrington, and why her mother had been responsible for his untimely death.
The moment Emma parked her Austin A30 in the hospital car park Jessica would jump out, her latest picture under one arm, a bar of Cadbury’s milk chocolate in her other hand, and run all the way to Sebastian’s bedside. Emma didn’t believe that anyone could love her son more than she did, but if anyone did, it was Jessica.
When Emma entered the ward a few minutes later, she was surprised and delighted to find Sebastian out of bed for the first time, and sitting in an armchair. The moment he saw his mother, he pushed himself up, steadied himself and kissed her on both cheeks; another first. When does that moment come, Emma wondered, when mothers stop kissing their children, and young men start kissing their mothers?
Jessica was telling her brother in great detail what she’d been up to during the week, so Emma perched herself on the end of the bed and happily listened to her exploits for a second time. Once she’d stopped talking long enough for Sebastian to get a word in, he turned to his mother and said, “I reread the minutes of the latest board meeting this morning. You do realize that the chairman will call for a vote at the next meeting, and this time you won’t be able to avoid making a decision on whether to go ahead with building the Buckingham.”
Emma didn’t comment as Jessica turned around and began to draw the old man who was sleeping in the next bed.
“I would do the same if I were in his position,” continued Sebastian. “So who do you think will win?”
“No one will win,” said Emma, “because whatever the outcome, the board will remain divided until it can be shown who was right.”
“Let’s hope not, because I think you’ve got a far bigger problem staring you right in the face, and one that will need you and the chairman to be working in harmony.”
“Fisher?”
Sebastian nodded. “And God knows how he’ll vote when it comes to whether or not you should build the Buckingham.”
“Fisher will vote whichever way Don Pedro Martinez instructs him to.”
“How can you be sure that it was Martinez, and not Lady Virginia, who bought those shares?” asked Sebastian.
“According to William Hickey in the Daily Express, Virginia is going through another messy divorce at the moment, so you can be sure she’ll be concentrating on how much maintenance she can extract from the Count of Milan before she decides how to spend it. In any case, I have my own reasons for believing that Martinez is behind the latest round of share buying.”
“I’d already come to that conclusion myself,” said Sebastian, “because one of the last things Bruno told me, when we were in the car on the way to Cambridge, was that his father had had a meeting with a major, and he overheard the name ‘Barrington’ come up during their conversation.”
“If that’s true,” said Emma, “Fisher will support the chairman, if for no other reason than to get back at Giles for preventing him becoming a Member of Parliament.”
“Even if he does, don’t assume he’ll want the building of the Buckingham to progress smoothly. Far from it. He’ll switch sides whenever he thinks he has an opportunity to harm the company’s short-term finances or long-term reputation. Forgive the cliché, but leopards don’t change their spots. Just remember that his overall aim is exactly the opposite of yours. You want the company to succeed, he wants it to fail.”
“Why would he want that?”
“I suspect you know the answer to that question only too well, Mama.” Sebastian waited to see how she would respond, but Emma simply changed the subject. “How come you’re suddenly so full of wisdom?”
“I have daily lessons at the foot of an expert. And what’s more, I’m his only pupil,” Sebastian added without explanation.
“And what does your expert advise that I should do, if I want the board to back me and vote against building the Buckingham?”
“He’s come up with a plan that would ensure you win the vote at the next board meeting.”
“That’s not possible while the board is so evenly divided.”
“Oh, it’s possible,” said Sebastian, “but only if you’re willing to play Martinez at his own game.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“As long as the family are in possession of twenty-two percent of the company’s stock,” continued Sebastian, “you have the right to appoint two more directors to the board. So all you have to do is co-opt Uncle Giles and Aunt Grace, and they can support you when it comes to the crucial vote. That way you can’t lose.”
“I could never do that,” said Emma.
“Why not, when so much is at stake?”
“Because it would undermine Ross Buchanan’s position as chairman. If he lost such an important vote because the family had ganged up against him, he would be left with no choice but to resign. And I suspect other directors would follow him.”
“But that might be the best outcome for the company in the long run.”
“Possibly, but I must be seen to win the argument on the day, and not have to rely on fixing the vote. That’s the sort of cheap trick Fisher would stoop to.”
“My dear Mama, no one could admire you more than I do for always taking the moral high road, but when you’re dealing with the Martinezes of this world, you have to understand that they have no morals, and will always be happy to take the low road. In fact, he’d crawl into the nearest gutter if he thought it would ensure he’d win the vote.”
A long silence followed, until Sebastian said, very quietly, “Mama, when I woke for the first time after the acciden
t, I found Don Pedro standing at the end of the bed.” Emma shuddered. “He was smiling, and said, ‘How are you, my boy?’ I shook my head, and it was only then that he realized I wasn’t Bruno. The look he gave me before he marched off was something I will never forget for the rest of my life.” Still Emma said nothing. “Mama, don’t you think the time has come to tell me why Martinez is so determined to bring our family to its knees? Because it wasn’t too difficult to work out that he meant to kill me on the A1, and not his own son.”
5
YOU’RE ALWAYS SO impatient, Sergeant Warwick, said the pathologist as he studied the body more closely.
But are you at least able to tell me just how long the body has been in the water? asked the detective.
Harry was crossing out the word just and changing has to had, when the phone rang. He put down his pen and picked up the receiver.
“Yes,” he said somewhat abruptly.
“Harry, it’s Harold Guinzburg. Congratulations, you’re number eight this week.” Harold rang every Thursday afternoon to let Harry know where he would feature on the bestseller list that Sunday. “That’s nine weeks in a row in the top fifteen.”
Harry had been at number 4 a month ago, the highest position he’d ever managed, and although he didn’t admit it even to Emma, he still hoped to join that select group of British writers who’d made it to the top on both sides of the Atlantic. The last two William Warwick mysteries had been number 1 in Britain, but the top spot in the States still eluded him.
“Sales figures are all that really matter,” said Guinzburg, almost as if he was reading Harry’s thoughts. “And in any case, I’m confident that you’ll climb even higher when the softback comes out in March.” Harry didn’t miss the words even higher and not to number one. “How’s Emma?”
“Preparing a speech on why the company shouldn’t be building a new luxury liner at the present time.”
“Doesn’t sound like a bestseller to me,” said Harold. “So tell me, how’s Sebastian coming along?”