Will Hasling noticed this immediately, and asked, ‘What is it, Amos? You’re looking peculiar.’
‘Can it wait until after Christmas? What I mean is, Mr Edward is a bit worried at the moment, as you well know, about his little boy. And it is the holiday season … the annual lunch tomorrow and then the dinner at your sister’s tomorrow evening.’
‘I see what you mean.’ Will became reflective for a moment or two, weighing the odds before remarking, ‘I understand exactly what you’re saying, but we all know that he detests surprises. If the gossip comes to him from someone else, he’s going to be furious with me for not telling him, preparing him in advance.’
Sitting up straighter in the chair, Amos agreed, exclaiming, ‘A point well taken. I reckon you will have to have a word with him. To quote my late father, forewarned is forearmed.’ Leaning forward across the desk, Amos added quietly, ‘Mr Richard said to me only last week that he believed his brother George was not suitable for Deravenels and shouldn’t be given any power in the company. That he had very poor judgement.’
Will was not at all surprised by this confidence. He had long been aware that there was bad blood between the two brothers. Richard was devoted and loyal to Ned, and would lay down his life for him, but he loathed George.
Will had known Richard since his childhood, and he loved him, admired him. He was of good character; a stickler for discipline and a bit straightlaced. He was also very hard working, talented in business, and Edward was especially pleased that he had settled in so well at Deravenels. Will knew that.
Of late Richard had become unusually critical of George. Will recognized that Richard had suffered because of George who had tried to block his marriage to Anne Watkins in the meanest way. Will stifled a sigh. He had never quite understood why Ned had not intervened sooner, rectified the situation, not allowed it to drag on.
Rousing himself from his thoughts, realizing Amos was waiting, Will continued. ‘Do you think Richard knows any bad gossip about George? Has he mentioned anything to you?’
‘No, he hasn’t. However, he might have heard something. Last week, out of the blue, he did make a remark – he said his brother was venal.’
‘He certainly hit the nail on the head.’
‘In my opinion George Deravenel is a dyed-in-the-wool trouble maker.’
Will gave Amos a long look, murmured, ‘He’s also … dangerous.’
‘Oh, I know that. Ever since he became entangled with Neville Watkins, and his machinations all those years ago, I’ve been suspicious of him. To tell you the truth, I’ve not trusted him since then.’
‘And neither have I.’ Will Hasling rose, walked towards the door, explaining, ‘I must get off, Amos, my wife is waiting for me at the Savoy Hotel. We’re going to the Savoy Theatre tonight.’
‘I understand. Have a pleasant evening, Mr H.’
Will swung around when he reached the door, and stared hard at Amos. ‘I will have to speak to Mr Edward as soon as possible. I must inform him about everything, prepare him. And please do a bit of digging, won’t you? Who knows what you’ll turn up.’
‘You can depend on me. If there’s anything to find, I’ll find it.’
There was going to be trouble. He could smell it in the air already. And he knew it in his bones for sure. For as long as he could remember, Amos had relied on his intuition, coupled with his insight into people. He also had a knack of knowing what made people tick, understood why they did the things they did, recognized their motivation. All of these gifts, because that’s how Amos thought of them, had helped him when he was a copper on the beat, policing the streets of Whitechapel, Limehouse, and other areas of London’s East End.
And they had continued to work for him during his years with Neville Watkins; nor had they disappeared when he had joined Deravenels, to head up the Security Division. A wry smile touched his mouth. No such thing as a Security Division until he had been hired to ‘watch my back’, as Edward Deravenel had so succinctly put it at the time.
These days this was no longer necessary. Most of Edward’s enemies were dead; some were living abroad but had been rendered powerless by Edward Deravenel’s success as head of the company. Deravenels had always been a huge global corporation; he had turned it into an operation which was bigger than ever and made more money than it had in its entire history.
His was a household name, not only in England but around the world, and he was considered to be one of the most influential tycoons in the City. Some said he was even more important than his late cousin Neville Watkins, who had been the greatest magnate at one time.
Amos now remembered that once he had told Mr Edward he wanted to retire. Edward had thrown a fit. Or something tantamount to one. He had gone berserk. That was the only word for it.
‘I want you here by my side for the rest of your life, and mine!’ Edward had declared heatedly. ‘I will not countenance talk of your retirement, and that’s that. Don’t bring it up again, Amos. And besides, always remember that men who retire invariably fall apart and die.’
Amos had been a little stunned by these words at the time, words so emphatically uttered, and yet he had also been immensely flattered. He realized then that he had a most special place in Edward Deravenel’s life and in his heart, just as his boss did in his.
Loyal, devoted, discreet and protective, Amos Finnister was also calm and cool under any circumstances. And he was so extraordinarily trustworthy that Edward Deravenel had never bothered to hide any aspects of his extremely complicated life from the former private investigator, who was usually at his side.
It was quite common knowledge at Deravenels that Amos Finnister was very close to the managing director, but no one knew just how close. Except for Will Hasling, who was even closer to Ned, being his longest and dearest friend.
These three men worked in harmony together, and had for years. They trusted each other implicitly, and were totally discreet about each other, revealing nothing to colleagues or family. Once, rather laughingly, Edward had said that they were like The Three Musketeers, and in a certain sense that was true.
The relationship between them worked for a number of reasons. Edward and Will, though aristocrats, were not snobs; they were affable, accessible, natural, and democratic in their attitudes. Amos Finnister knew he must never overstep the line. He was well aware of his place in the order of things. And he was never over-familiar. He knew how wrong that would be.
These three had been hand-in-glove for a long time. They thought alike, after years in each other’s company, and acted in a similar manner when confronted by problems. And they could usually second-guess each other.
Amos rose, walked up and down the office for a few seconds, stretching his long legs. And thinking hard.
Will Hasling was a lot more troubled that he was letting on, Amos was convinced of that. And he also knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Will would tell Edward everything tomorrow morning. And Edward would want him on it immediately.
Amos stepped over to the window and looked out. It seemed like a nice night, with a clear, dark sky, no clouds at all, and a galaxy of stars.
After locking his desk and taking his overcoat from the cupboard, Amos left his office and went down the stairs. He crossed the imposing, soaring marble lobby of Deravenels, as usual admiring its grandeur, and stepped out onto the Strand.
The thoroughfare was busier than he had seen it in a long time. Taxis, motorcars and omnibuses crowded the road, and the pavement was congested with pedestrians, mostly moving swiftly, hurrying about their business. It struck him immediately that he must walk. He had no alternative since it would be hard to find a cab in this mess.
Anyway, he did enjoy walking; it reminded him of his days on the beat, he supposed, and he usually did his best thinking when his feet were moving. Buttoning his topcoat, he set off at a brisk pace.
Tonight he was heading to the Ritz Hotel in Piccadilly. His old friend Charlie Morran was staying there, and they were to di
ne in the elegant Ritz Restaurant, which was one of the best in London. He had sometimes eaten there with Edward Deravenel, and he knew it quite well.
The hotel itself was palatial, with marble floors, rich carpets, crystal chandeliers, handsome dark-wood furniture, potted palms and huge arrangements of flowers. It was a particular favourite of the rich and famous, a rendezvous for the most well-known people in London … the aristocracy, socialites, famous actors, actresses, and writers, members of Parliament, politicians and heads of state … the crême-de-la-crême of the world.
Amos’s thoughts remained focused on Charlie as he strode out towards Trafalgar Square. He had not seen him for over two years; the young man had been at the front in France, fighting for King and Country.
When war had broken out in August of 1914, Charlie had immediately booked passage on a ship from New York to Southampton, and had come home to England to be a soldier. ‘I’m determined to do my bit,’ was the way he had put it to Amos when he had first arrived in London, adding, ‘I want to stand up and be counted, fight for what’s right and just. So here I am, and I’m going to enlist in the British Army this week.’ And he had.
Charlie had come back to London alone; his sister Maisie had already left America the year before. In 1913 she had gone to live in Ireland with the man she had just married.
Amos had grown very proud of Charlie and Maisie, and of the success they had achieved over the years. Within a few months of arriving in New York, where Charlie had constantly insisted the streets were paved with gold, the two Cockney kids from Whitechapel had found work in the theatre. And eventually they had become stars on Broadway, as they had always wanted. And why not?
They could sing, dance, and act, and both were clever mimics, quite aside from being exceptionally good looking. Talent and looks. The best combination. It was really no surprise to Amos when Charlie’s letters kept arriving very promptly with news of their continuing triumphs.
They had sailed away from Liverpool in 1904; then their love of London lured them back. They made many visits home over the ensuing years, and Amos had been delighted to see them whenever they arrived on his doorstep.
It was a happy day for Amos when the famous letter came, announcing Maisie’s marriage to her young Irishman, who, as it turned out, was the eldest son of Lord Dunleith, an Anglo-Irish landowner with a splendid Georgian mansion called Dunleith and vast acres surrounding his county seat.
All of these thoughts were swirling around in his head as Amos tramped towards Trafalgar Square. There were a good many people circulating in the area, and especially around the statue of England’s greatest hero, Horatio Nelson. Revellers were singing and waving the Union Jack and dancing. Some were shouting, ‘We beat the Hun!’ Obviously they were celebrating because it was the end of the war, not because it was Christmas, which was still a week away.
At the other side of Trafalgar Square somebody let off a Catherine wheel, and bursts of sparkling lights rushed up into the night air. More and more fireworks began to explode for a wonderful display of colour and brilliance, and there was applause and laughter and more songs.
Unexpectedly, a clear soprano voice rang out above the din. The woman began to sing Land of Hope and Glory, and after the first verse other people joined in, and soon everyone was singing. Including Amos, who discovered he had a funny lump in his throat. He felt an enormous swell of pride, and realized he was as sentimental and patriotic as the rest of them were.
Eventually, he moved on, walking through the square, heading West to Piccadilly and the Ritz Hotel.
Thank God the fighting has ended, he thought. For the first time in history, a war had exploded and engulfed the entire world, destroying the old order of things. He understood that nothing would ever be the same again. But thankfully the world was at peace tonight, after four years of hell and millions of young men dead, mowed down before they had had a chance to live.
EIGHT
When he reached Arlington Street, just off Piccadilly, Amos crossed over to the other side where the entrance to the Ritz Hotel was located.
Nodding to the doorman, attired in a uniform of dark blue and black top hat, he pushed through the swing doors and entered the lobby.
Glancing at the large clock on the wall, Amos was gratified to see that he was not late. It was exactly seven o’clock. After depositing his overcoat in the gentlemen’s cloakroom, he went into the promenade area where English afternoon tea was served without fail every day of the week.
He stood glancing around, and a split-second later he spotted Charlie coming towards him. Slowly. He had an extremely bad limp and was using a walking stick, leaning on it heavily. A captain in the British Army now, having received many promotions, he looked very smart in his officer’s uniform and Sam Brown belt.
Amos lifted his hand in a wave, and Charlie waved back. Hurrying forward to meet him, Amos’s step faltered slightly as he drew closer to his old friend. But he quickly recouped, took a deep breath, and continued down the plush carpet, hoping Charlie hadn’t noticed.
Pushing a smile onto his face, Amos thrust out his hand when they came to a standstill opposite each other, and Charlie grasped it tightly, held on to it for a moment.
Amos felt his heart clench and he had to swallow hard. The young actor would never act again, not with that ruined face. One side was badly scarred by burns, the skin bright red, puckered, and stretched tightly over the facial bones. The scars ran from his hairline to his jaw, and looked raw.
As if he had read Amos’s thoughts, Charlie said evenly, ‘I’ll have to find a new profession, I’m afraid, Amos. But at least I got out alive, and you know what, the doctors thought they’d have to amputate my leg, but they didn’t. Somehow they managed to save it for me.’ His voice wavered slightly as he added, ‘I’ve been one of the lucky ones.’
Amos was choked up, but swiftly took control of himself, impressed by Charlie’s courageous attitude. ‘I know you’ve been to hell and back, but you’re home now. And you’re safe.’
Charlie smiled faintly. ‘Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, old friend. Come on then, let’s go to the restaurant, shall we? Have a drink, toast each other, and reminisce about old times.’
‘Best idea yet. And how’s your sister Maisie?’
‘She’s tip-top, very cheerful, feeling better because Liam is steadily improving, and every day. He was so shell-shocked he was like a zombie for a long time. Then he started weeping a great deal, and constantly woke up screaming in the night. And I know why … it’s the memories … they don’t go away.’ Charlie shook his head. ‘Too many walking wounded who probably won’t ever get better. The walking dead, I call ’em. Might as well be dead, the kind of lives they’re going to have. Well, I shouldn’t say that, should I?’ He endeavoured to adopt a more cheerful tone, and finished, ‘Maisie’s a wonder, and she’s convinced that Liam will make a full recovery. She sends you her love, by the way.’
‘I received a Christmas card from her the other day, and she told me she hopes I’ll go and visit them at Dunleith. In fact, she suggested we go together.’
‘We’ll do it!’ Charlie announced, and nodded to the maître d’ who had come to greet them, and was waiting to usher them into the restaurant.
‘Good evening, Captain Morran, very nice to see you tonight.’ The man glanced at Amos, and smiled, ‘Good evening, Mr Finnister.’
Amos inclined his head. ‘Good evening,’ he replied, feeling certain that the maître d’ remembered him from the times he had come here for lunch with Edward Deravenel and Will Hasling.
They followed the head waiter across the room. When he showed them to a table near the window overlooking Green Park.
‘I’m glad I was able to get a room here,’ Charlie volunteered, looking across the dinner table at Amos. ‘The hotel seems to be very busy, no doubt because of the Armistice, and Christmas, of course. But I’m an old client and they were most obliging. I’m sure you remember that once we could afford it, Maisie and
I stayed here whenever we came to London. Mostly to see you, Amos, you know.’ Without waiting for a comment, he rushed on, ‘Believe me, this place is a helluva lot better than the trenches. Take my word for it.’
‘I do. I can’t imagine what you boys went through over there. Nobody can. Hell on earth, I’m certain, and I’ve no doubt that it was bloody horrific –’ Amos cut himself off as a waiter appeared at the table.
Charlie looked at Amos and asked, ‘Would you like champagne? Or something stronger?’
‘I’ll have whatever you’re having, Charlie, thanks very much.’
‘Then it’s champagne.’ Charlie said to the waiter, ‘I’d like a bottle of pink champagne, the best in the house.’
‘That would be Krug, sir. I’ll bring it right away.’
When they were once more alone, Charlie leaned closer to Amos and said in a low voice, ‘The constant shelling, the mustard gas, the hand-to-hand fighting, it was bleedin’ awful. But it was the bloody mud that got to us. Sometimes we sank knee-deep in it, and it slowed us down, I can tell you. One of my lads suddenly hit on the idea of using our rations to make a solid floor in the trenches.’
‘Rations?’ Amos’s eyebrows shot up questioningly.
‘That’s right … tins of Fray Bentos corned beef, our daily rations. Hundreds of tins went under our boots, helped to keep our feet dry, and at eye level, so we could see over the top of the trenches. Spot the Germans as they came at us. It was horrible, like glue, that mud, and then there was the incessant rain, the bombs exploding, the men dying all around us …’ Charlie let his voice fall away. He pressed his lips together, struggling to keep his emotions in check, but it was a struggle for him.
Amos, regarding him worriedly, noticed that Charlie’s dark eyes were suddenly moist, and he reached out, touched the younger man’s arm quietly, lovingly. ‘There, there, lad, take it easy. Perhaps we shouldn’t be talking about this –’
‘It’s all right, honest,’ Charlie cut in with swiftness. ‘It’s better to talk about it really, especially with an old friend like you. I know you understand how I feel, you always have.’
The Heir Page 6
