“Twenty-nine minutes,” shouted Cedric, trying to control his temper, as he lurched forward and grabbed the edge of his desk.
Sloane didn’t move as the chairman pulled open a drawer and took out a small bottle of pills. He fumbled with the safety cap, but lost his grip and dropped the bottle on to his desk. They both watched as it rolled on to the floor. Cedric attempted to fill a glass with water, but he no longer had the strength to pick up the jug.
“I need your help,” he slurred, looking up at Sloane, who just stood there, watching him carefully.
Cedric stumbled, took a pace backward, and fell heavily on the floor, gasping for breath. Sloane walked slowly around the desk, his eyes never leaving the chairman as he lay on the floor fighting for his life. He picked up the bottle and unscrewed the cap. Cedric stared up at him as he shook the pills on to the floor, just out of his reach. He then wiped the empty bottle with a handkerchief from his top pocket and placed it in the chairman’s hand.
Sloane leaned over and listened carefully, to find that the chairman was no longer breathing quite so heavily. Cedric tried to raise his head, but he could only watch helplessly as Sloane gathered up all the papers on his desk that he’d been working on for the past twenty-four hours. Sloane turned and walked slowly away, without once looking back, avoiding those eyes that were burning into him.
He opened the door and looked out into the corridor. No one in sight. He closed the door quietly behind him and went in search of the chairman’s secretary. Her hat and coat were no longer on the stand, so he assumed she must have left for the weekend. He tried to remain calm as he walked down the corridor, but beads of sweat were pouring off his forehead and he could feel his heart pounding.
He stood for a moment and listened, like a bloodhound sniffing for danger. He decided to throw the dice once again.
“Anyone around?” he shouted.
His voice echoed through the high-ceilinged corridor as if it were a concert hall, but there was no response. He checked the executive offices one by one, but they were all locked. No one on the top floor, other than Cedric, would still be in the office at six o’clock on a Friday evening. Sloane knew there would still be junior staff in the building who wouldn’t think of leaving before their bosses, but none of them would consider disturbing the chairman, and the cleaners wouldn’t be returning until five o’clock on Monday morning. That only left Stanley, the night porter, who would never budge from his comfortable chair at the front desk unless the building was on fire.
Sloane took the lift to the ground floor and, as he crossed the lobby, he noticed that Stanley was dozing quietly. He didn’t disturb him.
* * *
“The Rijksmuseum,” said Sam as they entered the Dutch national gallery, “houses one of the finest collections on earth. The Rembrandts are showstoppers but the Vermeers, De Wittes, and Steens are also among the finest examples of the Dutch masters you’ll ever see.”
Hand in hand they made their way slowly around the grand gallery, Sam often stopping to point out a character, or a feature of a particular work, without ever once referring to her guidebook. Whenever heads turned, and they often did, Seb wanted to shout, “And she’s bright, too!”
At the far end of the gallery stood a small crowd, admiring a single work.
“The Night Watch,” said Sam, “is a masterpiece, and probably Rembrandt’s best-known work. Although sadly we’ll never know what the original looked like because the city council later trimmed the painting to fit between two columns in the town hall.”
“They should have knocked down the columns,” said Seb, unable to take his eyes off the group of figures surrounding a finely dressed man carrying a lantern.
“Pity you weren’t on the town council,” said Sam as they walked into the next room. “And here’s a painting that will feature in my PhD thesis,” she continued as they stopped in front of a large canvas. “It’s hard to believe that Rubens completed the work in a weekend, because he had to attend the signing of a peace treaty between the English and Spanish on the following Monday. Most people are quite unaware that he was a diplomat as well as an artist,” she said before moving on.
Seb felt he ought to be taking notes, but his mind was on other things.
“This is one of my favorites,” said Sam, stopping in front of The Arnolfini Wedding.
“I’ve seen that somewhere else,” said Seb.
“Ah, so you do listen to me occasionally. You saw it when we visited the National Gallery last year.”
“So what’s it doing here?”
“It’s probably on loan,” said Sam. “But only for another month,” she added after taking a closer look at the label on the wall beside the portrait. “But more important, do you remember what I told you about it at the time?”
“Yes, it’s the wedding of a wealthy merchant, and Van Eyck must have been commissioned to record the event.”
“Not bad,” said Sam. “So really Van Eyck was just doing the job of a modern-day wedding photographer.”
Seb was about to say something, but she added, “Look at the texture of the bride’s dress, and the fur on the lapels on the groom’s coat—you can almost feel it.”
“The bride looks heavily pregnant to me.”
“How observant of you, Seb. But any wealthy man at the time had to be sure that the woman he’d chosen to be his wife was capable of producing an heir to inherit his fortune.”
“What a practical lot those Dutch were,” said Seb. “But what if you weren’t rich?”
“The lower classes were expected to behave more properly.”
Seb fell on one knee in front of the painting, looked up at Sam and said, “Samantha Ethel Sullivan, I adore you, and always will, and more than anything on earth I want you to be my wife.”
Sam blushed and, bending down, whispered, “Get up, you idiot. Everyone’s staring at us.”
“Not until you’ve answered my question.”
A small group of visitors had stopped looking at the paintings and were waiting for her reply.
“Of course I’ll marry you,” she said. “I’ve loved you since the day you got me arrested.” Several of the onlookers, looking rather puzzled, tried to translate her words.
Seb stood up, took out a small red leather box from his jacket pocket, and presented it to her. When Sam opened the box and saw the exquisite blue sapphire surrounded by a cluster of little diamonds, she was for once lost for words.
Seb took out the ring and placed it on the third finger of her left hand. When he leant forward to kiss his fiancée, he was greeted with a round of applause. As they walked away, hand in hand, Samantha glanced back at the painting and wondered if she ought to tell him.
12
“MAY I ASK what time you left the office on Friday evening, sir?”
“It must have been around six o’clock, inspector,” said Sloane.
“And what time was your appointment with Mr. Hardcastle?”
“Five. We always met at five on the last Friday of the month, to go over my department’s figures.”
“And when you left him, did he seem in good spirits?”
“Never better,” said Sloane. “My monthly results were up by two point two percent, and I was able to tell him the details of a new project I’d been working on that he became very excited about.”
“It’s just that the pathologist has put the time of death at around six o’clock on Friday evening, so you must have been the last person to see him alive.”
“If that’s the case, I only wish our meeting had lasted a little longer,” said Sloane.
“Quite so. Did Mr. Hardcastle take any pills while you were with him?”
“No. And although we all knew Cedric had a heart problem, he made a point of not taking his medication in front of members of staff.”
“It seems odd that his pills were scattered randomly over the floor of his office while the empty bottle was in his hand. Why wasn’t he able to get hold of at least one of the p
ills?”
Sloane said nothing.
“And Stanley Davis, the night porter, told me that you phoned in on Saturday morning to check if a package had arrived for you.”
“Yes, I did. I needed a particular document for a meeting that was scheduled for Monday morning.”
“And did it arrive?”
“Yes, but not until this morning.”
“Mr. Davis tells me he’s never known you to telephone on a Saturday morning before.”
Sloane didn’t rise to the bait.
“The pathologist has issued a death certificate concluding that Mr. Hardcastle died of a heart attack, which I have no doubt the coroner will confirm at the inquest.” Still Sloane said nothing. “Can I assume that you’ll be around for the next few days, Mr. Sloane, should I have any more questions?”
“Yes, you can, although I was planning to travel up to Huddersfield tomorrow to pay my respects to Mr. Hardcastle’s widow, and to see if there’s anything I can do to help with the funeral arrangements.”
“How very thoughtful of you. Well, I only have one or two more people to interview, Mr. Sloane, and then I’ll be on my way.”
Sloane waited for the inspector to leave his office and close the door behind him before he picked up the phone.
“I need those documents ready for signature by close of business today.”
“I’ve got a team working on them right now, sir.”
Sloane’s second call was to Ralph Vaughan at Savills, who passed on his condolences, but didn’t go into all of the details of his conversation with Cedric Hardcastle on Friday afternoon.
“And like you,” said Sloane, “our thoughts are with Cedric and his family at this time. But the last thing he said to me on Friday evening was to be sure we closed the Shifnal Farm deal.”
“But surely you know he withdrew the bank’s offer on Friday afternoon, which was embarrassing, to say the least.”
“That was before I was able to brief him on the full details, and I know he had intended to call you first thing this morning.”
“If that’s the case, I’m willing to extend the deadline for one more week, but no more,” emphasized Vaughan.
“That’s good of you, Ralph. And be assured the deposit of a hundred and sixty thousand will be with you later today, and we’ll just have to wait and see if anyone outbids me.”
“I can’t imagine anyone will,” said Vaughan. “But I must ask if you have the authority to make an offer of one point six million on behalf of the bank.”
“It’s no more than my duty to see that Cedric’s final wishes are carried out,” said Sloane, before putting down the phone.
Sloane’s third and fourth calls were to two of the bank’s major shareholders, who said they would back him, but only if Mrs. Hardcastle went along with his proposal.
“I’ll have the documents on your desk ready for signature by close of business tomorrow,” he assured them.
Sloane’s fifth call was to the Bank of Zurich in Switzerland.
* * *
Seb phoned his mother from the office that morning and told her the news.
“I’m so sorry,” said Emma. “I know how much you admired Cedric.”
“I can’t help thinking that my days at Farthings are numbered, especially if Adrian Sloane takes Cedric’s place.”
“Just keep your head down, and remember it’s quite hard to sack someone who’s doing a good job.”
“You clearly haven’t met Sloane. He would have sacked Wellington on the morning of Waterloo if it would have guaranteed he became a general.”
“Don’t forget that Ross Buchanan is still the deputy chairman, and the most likely candidate to replace Cedric.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Seb.
“I’m sure Cedric kept Ross well briefed on Sloane’s activities. And please let me know when and where the funeral will take place, as your father and I will want to attend.”
* * *
“I’m so sorry to trouble you at a time like this, Mrs. Hardcastle, but we both know that Cedric would have expected nothing less of me.”
Beryl Hardcastle drew her woollen shawl tightly around her and shrank back, almost disappearing into the large leather armchair.
“What do you need me to do?” she whispered.
“Nothing too demanding,” said Sloane. “Just a couple of documents that need to be signed, and then I know the Reverend Johnson is waiting to take you through the order of service. His only concern is that the church won’t be large enough to accommodate the local community as well as all Cedric’s friends and colleagues who will be traveling up from London on Thursday.”
“He wouldn’t have wanted them to miss a day’s work for his sake,” said Beryl.
“I didn’t have the heart to stop them.”
“That’s very considerate of you.”
“It’s no more than he deserves,” said Sloane. “But there is still one small matter that needs to be dealt with.” He extracted three thick documents from his briefcase. “I just need your signature, so the bank can carry on with its day-to-day business.”
“Can it wait until this afternoon?” asked Beryl. “My son Arnold is on his way up from London. As you probably know, he’s a QC, and he usually advises me on any matters concerning the bank.”
“I fear not,” said Sloane. “I’ll have to take the two o’clock train back to London if I’m to keep all the appointments Mr. Hardcastle had scheduled. If it would help, I’ll happily send copies of the documents round to Arnold’s chambers as soon as I get back to the bank.” He took her by the hand. “I just need three signatures, Mrs. Hardcastle. But by all means read through the documents if you are in any doubt.”
“I suppose it will be all right,” Beryl said, taking the pen Sloane handed to her and making no attempt to read the densely typed small print. Sloane left the room and asked the vicar to join them. He then knelt down beside Mrs. Hardcastle, turned to the last page of the first document and placed a finger on the dotted line. Beryl signed all three documents in the presence of the Reverend Johnson, who innocently witnessed her signature.
“I look forward to seeing you again on Thursday,” said Sloane, getting up off his knees, “when we will recall with admiration and gratitude all that Cedric achieved in his remarkable life.”
He left the old lady with the vicar.
* * *
“Mr. Clifton, can you tell me where you were at five o’clock on Friday evening?”
“I was in Amsterdam with my girlfriend, Samantha, visiting the Rijksmuseum.”
“When did you last see Mr. Cedric Hardcastle?”
“I went to his home in Cadogan Place just after eight on Thursday evening, having returned from Shifnal in Shropshire.”
“May I ask why Mr. Hardcastle wanted you to visit him outside working hours, when you could have seen him at the office the following morning?”
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 da
y, 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.