Cometh the Hour: A Novel (48 page)

“Mr. Sloane,” said the older of them, “I am arresting you for being in possession of counterfeit money, and trading the same while being aware that it was not legal tender.”

The junior officer quickly thrust Sloane’s arms behind his back and handcuffed him. They then marched the prisoner out of the station and bundled him into the back of a waiting police car.

*   *   *

Emma always took a second look at any vessel that flew the Canadian flag from its stern. She would then check the name on the hull before her heartbeat would return to normal.

When she looked this time, her heartbeat almost doubled and her legs nearly buckled under her. She double-checked; not a name she was ever likely to forget. She stood and watched the two little tugs steaming up the estuary, black smoke billowing from their funnels as they piloted the rusting old cargo ship toward its final destination.

She changed direction, but as she made her way to the breakers’ yard, she couldn’t help wondering about the possible consequences of trying to find out the truth after all these years. Surely it would be more sensible just to go back to her office rather than rake over the past … the distant past.

But she didn’t turn back, and when she reached the yard Emma headed straight for the chief ganger’s office, as if she were simply carrying out her usual morning rounds. She stepped into the railway carriage and was relieved to find that Frank wasn’t there, just a secretary typing away. She stood the moment she saw the chairman.

“I’m afraid Mr. Gibson isn’t here, Mrs. Clifton. Shall I go and look for him?”

“No, that won’t be necessary,” said Emma. She glanced at the large booking chart on the wall, only to have her worst fears confirmed. The SS
Maple Leaf
had been scheduled for breaking up and work was to begin on Tuesday week. At least that gave her a little time to decide whether to alert Harry or, like Nelson, turn a blind eye. But if Harry found out the
Maple Leaf
had returned to its graveyard and asked her if she’d known about it, she wouldn’t be able to lie to him.

“I’m sure Mr. Gibson will be back in a few minutes, Mrs. Clifton.”

“Don’t worry, it’s not important. But would you ask him to drop in and see me when he’s next passing my office?”

“Can I tell him what it’s about?”

*   *   *

Karin looked out of the window at the countryside rushing by as the train continued on its journey to Truro. But her thoughts were elsewhere as she tried to come to terms with the baroness’s death.

She hadn’t been in touch with Cynthia for several months, and MI6 had made no attempt to replace her as Karin’s handler. Had they lost interest in her? Cynthia had given her nothing of any significance to pass on to Pengelly for some time, and their tearoom meetings had become less and less frequent.

Pengelly had hinted that it wouldn’t be long before he expected to return to Moscow. It couldn’t be soon enough for her. She was sick of deceiving Giles, the only man she’d ever loved, and was tired of traveling down to Cornwall on the pretence of visiting her father. Pengelly wasn’t her father but her stepfather. She loathed him, and had only ever intended to use him to help her escape a regime she despised, so she could be with the man she’d fallen in love with. The man who had become her lover, her husband and her closest friend.

Karin hated not being able to tell Giles the real reason she had tea at the House of Lords with the baroness so often. Now that Cynthia was dead, she would no longer have to live a lie. But when Giles discovered the truth, would he believe she’d escaped the tyranny of East Berlin only because she wanted to be with him? Had she lied once too often?

As the train pulled into Truro, she prayed it was for the last time.

*   *   *

“So as I understand it,” said Sloane’s solicitor, “your defense is that you had no idea the money was counterfeit. You found it in the company’s safe at Mellor Travel’s head office in Bristol and naturally assumed it was legal tender.”

“That, Mr. Weatherill, is not only my defense, it also happens to be the truth.”

Weatherill looked down at the charge sheet. “Is it also correct that earlier in the morning on which you were arrested, you purchased three shirts from Hilditch and Key in Jermyn Street, at a cost of eighteen pounds, and paid for them with four five-pound notes, all of which were counterfeit? You then took a taxi to Paddington, another forged five-pound note, where you purchased a first-class return ticket to Bristol, with three more forged five-pound notes.”

“They all came from the same package,” said Sloane. “The one I found in the company safe in Mellor’s office.”

“The second charge,” continued Weatherill calmly, “concerns the illegal possession of a further £7,320 found in a safe in your flat in Mayfair, which you also knew to be counterfeit.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Sloane. “I had no idea the money was counterfeit when I came across it in Mellor’s safe.”

“It’s just unfortunate that you transfered the money from Mellor’s office in Bristol to your flat in London.”

“I only moved the money there for safekeeping. I can’t be expected to travel down to Bristol every time I need some petty cash to carry out Mellor’s business.”

“And then there’s the problem of the two written statements obtained by the police,” said Weatherill. “One from a Miss Angela Castle, and the other from Mr. Mellor himself.”

“A convicted criminal.”

“Then let’s begin with his statement. He says there was never more than a thousand pounds in cash in his Bristol safe.”

“He’s a liar.”

“According to Miss Castle’s statement, Mellor withdrew one thousand pounds in cash from the company account every quarter, for his personal use.”

“She’s obviously covering for him.”

“Mellor’s bank, the Nat West in Queen Street, Bristol,” continued Weatherill, “has supplied the police with copies of all his business and personal accounts over the past five years. They confirm that neither he nor the company ever withdrew more than a thousand pounds a quarter in cash.”

“This is a setup,” said Sloane.

“There is one further charge,” said Weatherill. “That you have, for several years, been collaborating with a Mr. Ronald Boyle, a well-known counterfeiter. Mr. Boyle has signed an affidavit in which he alleges that you regularly met him at the King’s Arms, a public house in Soho, where you would exchange one thousand pounds in legal tender for ten thousand pounds in forged notes.”

Sloane smiled for the first time. If only you’d quit while you were ahead, Desmond, you’d have had me banged up for a decade, he said to himself. But you couldn’t resist over-egging the pudding, could you?

*   *   *

Giles was dozing when the badged messenger handed him a slip of paper. He unfolded it, read it and was suddenly wide awake:
Please contact the Cabinet Secretary urgently
.

Giles couldn’t remember the last time Sir Alan had asked him to call him at No.10, let alone urgently. He didn’t move immediately, honoring the House convention that you don’t leave the chamber during a colleague’s speech. But the moment Lord Barnett had finished explaining his proposed formula for Scotland and resumed his place, Giles slipped out of the chamber and headed for the nearest phone.

“Number Ten Downing Street.”

“Sir Alan Redmayne.”

“Who’s calling please?”

“Giles Barrington.”

The next voice he heard couldn’t be mistaken.

“Giles”—he’d never called him Giles before—“are you able to come across to Number Ten immediately?”

*   *   *

Sloane’s solicitor moved quickly and the police were in no position to turn down his request.

Five other men were selected to take part in the lineup. All of them were roughly the same age as Sloane, and all wore similar City suits, white shirts and striped ties. As Mr. Weatherill pointed out to the investigating officer, if his client really had visited the King’s Arms on several occasions to exchange real notes for counterfeit ones, it shouldn’t be difficult for Mr. Boyle to pick out his accomplice in an identity parade.

An hour later, Sloane was released, all the charges against him dropped. Boyle, who had no desire to return to Ford and face Mellor, turned Queen’s evidence, confessed to the setup and was shipped off to HMP Belmarsh to await trial on charges of forgery, giving false evidence and perverting the course of justice.

A month later, Desmond Mellor came up in front of the parole board, with an application to have his sentence halved on the grounds of good behavior. He was turned down and told that he would not only serve his full sentence, but that further charges against him were being prepared by the DPP.

When Sloane was next interviewed by the police, he was only too happy to supply further evidence to incriminate Mellor.

“Do you wish to add anything else to your statement?” asked the investigating officer.

“Only one thing,” said Sloane. “You should look into the role Lady Virginia Fenwick played in this whole operation. I have a feeling Mr. Boyle might be able to assist you.”

*   *   *

“Mr. Mellor is on line three,” said Rachel.

“Tell him to go to hell,” replied Sebastian.

“He said he’s only allowed three minutes.”

“All right, put him through,” said Seb reluctantly, curious to know what the damn man could possibly want.

“Good morning, Mr. Clifton. Decent of you to take my call, all things considered. I don’t have a lot of time, so I’ll get straight to the point. Would you be willing to visit me at Ford on Sunday? There’s something I’d like to discuss with you that could be of mutual benefit.”

“What could I possibly want to discuss with you?” said Sebastian, barely able to control his temper. He was just about to slam the phone down, when Mellor said, “Adrian Sloane.”

Sebastian hesitated for a moment, then opened his diary. “This Sunday isn’t possible as it’s my daughter’s birthday. But I’m free the following Sunday.”

“It will be too late by then,” said Mellor, without explanation.

Seb hesitated again. “What time are visiting hours?” he eventually managed, but the line had gone dead.

*   *   *

“How many years have you worked for the company, Frank?” asked Emma.

“Nigh on forty, ma’am. Served your father, and your grandfather before him.”

“So you’ll have heard the story of the
Maple Leaf
?”

“Before my time, ma’am, but everyone in the yard is familiar with the tale, though few ever speak of it.”

“I have a favor to ask, Frank. Could you put together a small gang of men who can be trusted?”

“I’ve two brothers and a cousin who’ve never worked for anyone else but Barrington’s.”

“They’ll need to come in on a Sunday, when the yard is closed. I’ll pay them double time, in cash, and there will be an incentive bonus of the same amount in twelve months’ time, but only if I’ve heard nothing of the work they carried out that day.”

“Very generous, ma’am,” said Frank, touching the peak of his cap.

“When will they be able to start?”

“Next Sunday afternoon. The yard will be closed until Tuesday, Monday being a bank holiday.”

“You do realize you haven’t asked me what it is I want you to do?”

“No need to, ma’am. And if we should find what you’re lookin’ for in the double bottom, what then?”

“I ask no more than that the remains of Arthur Clifton should be given a Christian burial.”

“And if we find nothing?”

“Then it will be a secret the five of us take to our graves.”

*   *   *

Archibald Douglas James Iain Fenwick, the tenth earl of Fenwick, was among the last to arrive.

When he entered the room, everyone rose, acknowledging that the title had been passed on to the next generation. He joined his two younger brothers, Fraser and Campbell, in the front row, where one chair remained unoccupied.

At that moment Virginia was just leaving the Caledonian Hotel, having enjoyed her breakfast with the chief executive of Teacher’s Scotch whisky. A price had been agreed, and all that remained was for the lawyers to draw up a contract.

She decided to walk the short distance to Bute Street, confident that she still had a few minutes to spare. When she arrived outside the offices of Ferguson, Ferguson and Laurie, she found the front door open. She stepped inside to be greeted by an articled clerk, who was glancing at his watch.

“Good morning, my lady. Would you please make your way up to the first floor, as the reading of the will is about to begin.”

“I think you’ll find they won’t start without me,” Virginia said before she began to climb the stairs to the first floor. The sound of expectant chattering suggested the direction she should be heading for.

When she entered the crowded room, nobody stood. She made her way to the front row and took the empty seat between Archie and Fraser. She had hardly settled when a door in front of her opened and three gentlemen dressed in identical black jackets and pin-striped gray trousers entered the room and took their places behind a long table. Did anyone still wear stiff wing collars in 1978, Virginia wondered. Yes, the partners of Ferguson, Ferguson and Laurie, when reading the last will and testament of a Scottish earl.

Roderick Ferguson, the senior partner, poured himself a glass of water. Virginia thought she recognized him, and then realized he must be the son of the man who had represented her when she had divorced Giles over twenty years ago. The same bald dome with a thin girdle of grey hair, the same beak nose and half-moon glasses. Virginia even wondered if they were the same pair of half-moon glasses.

As the clock behind him struck nine, the senior partner glanced in the direction of the earl and, after receiving a nod, turned his attention to the assembled gathering. He coughed—another affectation inherited from his father.

“Good morning,” he began, in a clear, authoritative voice with a slight Edinburgh burr. “My name is Roderick Ferguson, and I am the senior partner of Ferguson, Ferguson and Laurie. I am joined today by two other partners of the firm. I had the privilege,” he continued, “as did my father before me, of representing the late earl as his legal advisor, and it has fallen upon me to administer his last will and testament.” He took a sip of water, followed by another cough.