‘No, nothing to do with Scotland, Elizabeth,’ Cecil responded, and took a sip of wine, preparing himself.
The two of them were having supper at Mark’s Club in Mayfair. Cecil had invited her to dine with him because Robert was still in Paris with Nicholas, and he believed this was a good time to talk to her privately.
‘If it’s not about the kilt, then what is it about? What has Norfell done for you to think he has to go?’ Elizabeth asked, her curiosity fully aroused.
‘I shall be blunt, and tell you straight, and without any fancy folderol. Norfell is not your friend.’
‘That’s not surprising since he’s another five-times removed relative of mine,’ she retorted with a wry smile. ‘They all seem to want to get at me somehow. But go on, Cecil, tell me more.’
‘He’s not your friend because he’s Robert’s enemy, I’m convinced of that.’
She stared at him, a mixture of sudden annoyance and astonishment crossing her face, and exclaimed, ‘And Robin has always said he bears watching! So he was right about Norfell, wasn’t he?’
‘Indeed he was. It’s jealousy, basically. I don’t mean romantic jealousy, but envy of Robert’s success at Deravenels. He’s done a lot of backstabbing, so I’ve been told, and he would truly enjoy seeing Robert take a stumble. To fall out of favour with you.’
‘The latter is not likely or even possible, and you know it. If you want to give Norfell the sack, go ahead. But let’s not forget he’s been doing wonders with the hotel division. Isn’t there a way to render him powerless whilst still employing him?’
Relieved that she was taking this so well and not flying into a rage, as she often did, Cecil allowed himself to laugh with her. ‘The only way to do that would be to send him off to some far-flung spot. Like the South Seas. Pity we don’t have a project for him, he enjoys these jaunts.’
Elizabeth stared at Cecil alertly, then gave him a radiant smile. ‘You’ve just jogged my mind. I’ve long wanted to open a place in Fiji, that area anyway, a hotel and a spa combined. They’ve become extremely popular, and Anka Palitz has been after me to create a really luxurious club. Why don’t we send John Norfell to Fiji? Or wherever we decide, to scout locations, etcetera, etcetera.’
‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’ Cecil sat back, nodding to himself.
‘I am indeed. But I would like to discuss it with Robin first.’
‘Will you tell him the reason why?’
‘Certainly. He should know, shouldn’t he? In fact, if we, the triumvirate, agree that it’s a good idea to keep Norfell and to send him away –’ she laughed with sudden gaiety, and went on, ‘– to Fiji or Bali, or wherever, then let’s have Robert send him.’ When Cecil was silent, she said, ‘No? Yes? What?’
‘I think it’s a brilliant idea, and it would be most diplomatic if Robert was the one to tell him.’
‘Then that’s settled.’ She stabbed her fork into a shrimp, and then looked Cecil right in the eye. ‘I bet it was Charles Broakes who shopped Norfell, wasn’t it? They’re not so close, you know, even though they’d like us to think that. I believe Charlie loathes him, actually.’
‘No, it wasn’t Charlie Broakes.’
‘Come on, who was it, Cecil?’
‘Mark Lott.’
Elizabeth gaped at him, totally taken aback. ‘Bloody hell!’ she exclaimed, using one of Francis’s favourite expressions. ‘I would never have guessed it. And why do you think Mark Lott carried tales out of school?’
‘No idea,’ Cecil replied succinctly. ‘But I’m glad he did.’
FORTY-THREE
Francis Walsington sat in total silence, listening attentively to the man he was lunching with, his face unreadable, without expression, despite his growing alarm.
‘And that’s it, all of it,’ Giles Frayne finished at last, and took a long swallow of water.
‘All I can say is it’s a hell of a yarn you’ve just told me, Giles, hardly believable.’
‘I was shocked when it all started to fall together. Aren’t you?’ Giles threw Francis a questioning look and sat back on the banquette waiting for his reaction.
‘Shocked, and dismayed. Now, let’s order. You must be starving. And thanks for flying down from Scotland. I appreciate it.’
‘I believe it was wiser, Francis. What the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve over, as my old mum used to say.’
Francis half smiled, and hailed a waiter, who came over at once with the menus. The two men were lunching at The Ivy, sitting at the far end of the restaurant in a quiet corner where they were unobserved, and could talk privately and without being overheard.
‘I can never resist the haddock here,’ Francis muttered almost to himself, his mind racing, trying to fit this puzzle together. It was a bit of a conundrum.
Giles said, ‘I think I’ll join you – fried haddock and chips sound good, and I’ll start with oysters.’
‘So will I.’ Francis beckoned to the waiter, who came, took their order, and handed Francis the wine list.
‘Would you like a glass of wine, Giles?’ Francis asked.
‘I won’t, thanks.’
‘Neither will I.’ Looking at the waiter, handing back the wine list, Francis said, ‘Thanks very much, we’ll stay with the water.’
Leaning forward across the table, Francis addressed Giles in a low voice. ‘You were right, by the way: we can’t be seen in Edinburgh together, that would give the game away. And whilst we could have spoken on the phone, I prefer to meet person-to-person. Under the circumstances. I also wanted to give you this.’ Francis reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, and took out an envelope, handed it to Giles.
‘Thank you,’ Giles said, putting it in his trouser pocket.
‘Events have moved rather more rapidly than I expected,’ Francis continued. ‘In fact, I would say they’ve moved with the speed of lightning. I’m going to have to do some fancy footwork, to say the least, to control this situation and avert a disaster.’
‘Yes, you will, I agree. In the meantime, what do you want me to do?’
‘Bloody hell, Giles, you’ve got to stay in place! Embedded in there! I need to know exactly what’s happening, and all the time. You’re the best undercover operative I’ve ever had.’ Francis sat back, giving him an appraising look. ‘Nobody suspects you, do they?’
‘Not on your life. I’m cool. Don’t worry.’
Giles Frayne, who at thirty was a few years younger than Francis Walsington, happened to be a good actor and a brilliant dissembler. That he was highly intelligent and had had plenty of business experience added to his value; he was at the top of Francis’s list when it came to important and sensitive jobs such as this, and had been for a number of years.
‘I suppose it’s hard to anticipate what their next move will be, isn’t it?’ Francis leaned back in the chair, rubbed his mouth, frowning. ‘Bloody impossible,’ he muttered, answering his own question.
‘I hate to second guess anyone, don’t you?’ Giles seemed at a loss. ‘Anything can happen. At any moment. They’re unpredictable.’
‘You’re going back tonight, aren’t you?’
‘I am. As we agreed. You need me where I’m supposed to be … tomorrow morning.’
Francis nodded. ‘Today’s the fourth of April. Let’s meet again on Saturday, the ninth. Is that okay?’
‘Yes, it’s fine. I’ll bring my wife and daughter up to London for the weekend … a good cover, and they’ll enjoy it.’
‘How will you handle a meeting with me?’
‘No problem. Let’s get together for a drink early on Saturday evening. Can you manage that?’
‘I certainly can, Giles. Six o’clock at the Ritz Hotel. Ah, here’s our lunch.’
Later that afternoon, back in his office at Deravenels, Francis Walsington sat down at his desk and began to ponder everything Giles had told him.
He was appalled by the events which Giles had recounted in such precise detail, and wondered what they
would mean in relation to Elizabeth. How would they affect her? How could he intervene? Could he guide her to safety if indeed she needed that? Deep down he knew. Trouble, he thought. There’s trouble heading our way. I must find a way to avert it.
At six o’clock that evening Francis hurried to Elizabeth’s office and knocked on the door before opening it.
‘Hello, Francis!’ Elizabeth exclaimed when she saw him hovering in the doorway. ‘Don’t stand there, come in.’
‘I need to talk to you,’ he said as he walked across to her desk.
As he sat down Elizabeth knew something was wrong. His eyes were troubled, his expression unusually gloomy. ‘Francis, what is it? You look as if you’re the bearer of bad news.’
‘I am. Where’s Robert? I think he should be here. And Cecil.’
‘They’re together in Cecil’s office.’ As she spoke she picked up the phone and keyed in Cecil’s number. ‘Francis is here in my office, Cecil,’ she said when he answered. ‘He has some news for us – apparently bad news.’ After putting down the receiver, Elizabeth sat back, and said, ‘You can never hide anything from me.’
He gave her a weak smile, and then laughed hollowly. ‘I wasn’t trying to hide it. I just don’t know what to do about it, that’s my problem.’
A moment later Robert and Cecil came into Elizabeth’s office looking concerned, and Robert said, ‘Let’s sit over here, Francis, it’s more comfortable.’
Cecil and Robert seated themselves on the sofa near the window, and Cecil asked, ‘What’s happened, Francis?’
Following Elizabeth across the room, Francis exclaimed, ‘That damned bloody foolish woman! She’s found herself another man, and he spells nothing but trouble for her. And perhaps for us. She’s got to be out of her mind.’
‘Marie Stewart!’ Elizabeth exclaimed. ‘You’re talking about the kilt, aren’t you?’
‘I am.’
‘You say she’s got another man … but she’s only just been widowed!’ Elizabeth sounded shocked.
‘I know … the whole world knows,’ Francis replied. ‘And obviously she doesn’t give a damn what anyone thinks.’
‘Who’s the man?’ Cecil asked.
‘Jimmy Bothwith.’
‘The Scottish tycoon?’ Elizabeth asked, sounding incredulous.
‘He thinks he’s a big deal, but I can assure you he isn’t,’ Cecil exclaimed. ‘And Francis is right, he’s bad news. He’s been in more shady deals than I care to think about. It’s a miracle he’s stayed out of jail.’
Robert stared at Francis. ‘If I’m not mistaken, he’s a married man, isn’t he?’
‘Do you think that matters to the kilt? She couldn’t care less,’ Francis answered.
‘Darlay killed in an explosion in February. New man strolls onto the scene in April.’ Elizabeth raised a brow. ‘Correct?’
‘Oh, long before that, according to my sources,’ Francis replied. ‘The story is that they were having an affair before Darlay was killed, and that the explosion and fire at the country house was not an accident at all. People say it was a very well-planned bit of work.’
‘Arson?’ Elizabeth whispered. ‘Or a bomb?’
‘That’s the general idea,’ Francis said. ‘The talk is that they wanted to be rid of Henry Darlay as soon as possible, in order to indulge in their romantic dalliance without any interference.’
‘They?’ Elizabeth gave Francis a sharp glance. ‘Do people speak of her complicity? Do they think she was involved in her husband’s murder – if he was, in fact, murdered?’
‘Some people do, yes.’
Elizabeth shuddered but made no comment.
Robert said, ‘So Marie Stewart de Burgh Darlay is onto her third husband? Is that what you’re telling us, Francis?’
‘I don’t know if she’ll marry Bothwith, but she’s with him in every meaning of that word, and has been for a while apparently. The thing is, she’s fighting with her half-brother, as we all know, and it looks as if she’s about to push him out and bring Jimmy Bothwith into Scottish Heritage.’
‘But that doesn’t affect us in any way,’ Elizabeth pointed out, looking perplexed.
‘True. However, I have it on good authority that Bothwith has been swaggering all over Edinburgh, telling anyone who’ll listen that he is going to make sure Marie Stewart gets what’s hers. And that is your job at Deravenels. He’s going to replace you with her.’
‘That can’t happen!’ Robert asserted.
‘I know that. We all know it, but once again it’s the harassment factor being brought into play. Jimmy Bothwith might be of dubious character, but he’s not stupid. In fact, he’s rather clever in certain ways. So he knows very well that giving interviews, talking it up to the press in general is only going to irritate the hell out of us. Nuisance value, and all that shit.’ Francis shook his head. ‘Ego. That is Jimmy Bothwith’s fatal flaw. He’s always comparing himself to Jimmy Goldsmith and Jimmy Hanson, two of the greatest tycoons ever invented, who ruled the world in the seventies and eighties –’
‘He might have the same first name as them, but that’s all he has,’ Cecil remarked pithily, cutting in. ‘He’s a fool.’
‘Marie Stewart has tried to harass us in the past, and in the end it came to nothing. So it’ll be just the same this time, won’t it? If she and Bothwith attempt to do that, I mean.’ Elizabeth looked at Francis, and then at Cecil and Robert sitting on the sofa.
‘The answer is yes,’ Francis answered, and went on swiftly, ‘Where do we stand on the deal with Norseco Oil?’
‘The contracts came in about two weeks ago, and we’ve been going over them with a fine toothcomb,’ Robert said. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘I was told today that Jimmy Bothwith owns a company called Belvedere Holdings, and another one by the name of Castleton Capital. And these two companies are heavily invested in Norseco Oil. Very heavily.’
There was total silence in the room.
Finally Robert broke the silence when he said slowly, in a thoughtful voice, ‘Norseco has a lot of shareholders, and I can’t say that those names ring a bell. But we can quickly find out from Spencer Thomas.’
‘I think we should do that,’ Cecil exclaimed, then looked at his watch. ‘Though I doubt that Spencer’s still here at this hour. In fact, I believe he went to his daughter’s school play this afternoon: he mentioned it in passing.’
‘If Belvedere Holdings and Castleton Capital do own a big block of shares in Norseco, then that means we’re about to buy a company that’s partially owned by Jimmy Bothwith,’ Elizabeth said. ‘And we’ll have the kilt on our backs. Let’s not forget that big shareholders inevitably want a seat on the board.’
‘You’ve got it,’ Francis said, and stood up. He paced the floor for a moment or two, and continued, ‘I’m going to double check a few things, and then let’s have a meeting on Thursday. I’ll have all my ducks in a row by that time, but I do need a couple of days.’
‘Morning or afternoon, which do you prefer, Francis?’ Elizabeth stood up as she spoke, walked over to her desk, checked her engagement book. ‘I’m free all day, and I’m sure Cecil and Robert will fit in with us.’
‘Let’s make it late afternoon,’ Francis answered. ‘I need as much time as possible.’
‘Can I ask you something?’ Robert ventured quietly, giving Francis a cautious glance.
‘Go ahead.’
‘Are you absolutely positive about those two companies?’
‘The source was good. I’ve no reason to doubt the accuracy of what I’ve told you.’
‘We could ask Jake Sorrenson, the chairman of the North Sea Consolidated Oil Company. He knows who owns shares in his company.’
‘Of course he does,’ Francis agreed. ‘And if he doesn’t have it in his head, he can look up the list of shareholders. The problem is, Sorrenson doesn’t know who owns Belvedere Holdings and Castleton Capital. And neither do I. My source assured me Bothwith is the owner, but that he has straw men fro
nting for him. He’s a devious sod.’
‘Who is your source?’ Elizabeth asked.
Francis looked at her and smiled. ‘Even if you were the Queen of England I couldn’t tell you that, and you know it, Elizabeth.’
‘It’s Francis.’
‘Is everything all right? You sound awfully strained,’ Elizabeth said, her grip on the receiver tightening.
‘There are no problems, but I want to cancel the meeting for this afternoon.’
‘Oh. Why?’
‘Because we don’t need to have it. However, I would like to come to your office now. I only need ten minutes of your time.’
‘That’s fine. I’m working on my charity donations at the moment, but that’s nothing pressing.’
Three minutes later Francis Walsington walked into Elizabeth Turner’s office and sat down opposite her. ‘I’m now going to tell you what you have to do. So please listen carefully.’
And she did.
FORTY-FOUR
‘And I thought this year was going to be peaceful!’ Elizabeth said, reaching out, clasping Robert’s hand resting on the table. ‘But it looks as if 2005 is going to be as hectic as all the others.’
Robert brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. ‘What was it Grace Rose said to you … that your life was always going to be extreme.’
‘I miss her, you know. She was a marvellous sounding board for me.’
‘And now you only have me. And Cecil … blokes who don’t understand women!’
‘Oh, the two of you understand all right, and so does Francis. I really felt sorry for him on Monday, he seemed at his wits’ end, don’t you think?’
‘I think he was really pissed off about the kilt. Let’s face it, she’s being pretty callous, flaunting Bothwith and Darlay hardly cold in his grave. He died in February, and this is April. By God, she’s a swift one. Fairly takes my breath away.’
‘I don’t understand the police. Haven’t they done a proper investigation?’
‘I’m sure they have, darling. But if a crime’s not solved in the first forty-eight hours it usually isn’t …’ He beckoned a waiter, and ordered two more glasses of pink champagne, then continued. ‘That seems to be the rule of thumb these days, so I’m told.’