The post-mortem was being held in George Strode’s office. Most conferences of any importance at Strode House seemed to happen there. Hinchcliffe, the only outsider who was an executive director, had been called in and the point at issue was the behaviour of their Singapore manager. George Strode, sitting squat and solid behind his desk, had worked himself up into a towering rage and the atmosphere was tense. “You admitted to me yesterday that you’d notified Alexander of Peter’s appointment to the board. Why did you do that? Was it at Peter’s request?”
“Yes. I phoned Alexander the day after I got back to Singapore.”
He glanced at his brother, a gleam of triumph in his eyes. “You see—I was right. And he took your word for it, just like that, over the phone?” He was glowering at me then as though I were responsible for what had happened.
“At the time,” I said. “Later he asked to see me about it. I was staying with friends and he made an appointment and drove out to the house.”
“What did he want?”
“Confirmation. I showed him your letter to me and that seemed to satisfy him.”
“Well, there you are, George.” Henry Strode’s voice sounded weary as though he had spent a lifetime trying to cope with his brother’s temper. “This isn’t Alexander’s fault. It’s ours. We made Peter a director. We knew the sort of man he was.”
“We made him a director of Strode & Company.”
“It’s all the same to a man who’s been——”
“It’s not the same at all, Henry, and you know it.” George Strode was jabbing angrily at his blotter with a paper-knife. “So does Alexander. He’s not that much of a fool.”
“Alexander’s half Chinese.”
“What the hell’s that got to do with it?”
“He’s been with us since 1936 and to him the family is the family. Father dinned that into his head years ago.”
“You’re just making excuses for him.” The two brothers sat facing each other and an ugly silence hung over the panelled and gilded room. Finally George Strode said, “There’s something more to it than that.” His little oyster eyes switched to me. “As I understand it, Peter was already a member of the crew of the Strode Venturer when you finally tracked him down. Did you get the crew list from Alexander?”
“Yes.”
“And his name was on it?”
I nodded.
“In other words Alexander knew who he was, had in fact connived at his becoming a member of the Strode Venturer’s crew?”
“His name was on the crew list,” I said. “That was all that interested me at the time.”
“At the time?” He leaned towards me across the big mahogany desk, a gleam of triumph in his eyes. “But later—didn’t it strike you as curious?”
It was Colonel Hinchcliffe who saved me answering that one. “What are you suggesting, George—that there was some sort of collusion between the two of them?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I am suggesting. I think Alexander was in this thing from the beginning.” He looked across at his brother. “Well, Henry?” And when his brother didn’t say anything, he pointed the paper-knife at him. “You cable your manager and find out what he’s got to say about it. I’m firing Deacon as soon as his ship gets to Aden.”
“Are you suggesting I suspend Alexander?” Henry Strode shook his head. “I can’t do that. Business is bad enough …” He glanced up at me. “I don’t think we need Commander Bailey any more, do we?”
George Strode hesitated. Then he gave me a brief nod of dismissal. As I went out I heard Henry Strode say, “Well, it’s taught us a lesson. But once he’s here …” He was switching the argument away from Alexander. But I thought George Strode was probably right. During the three years Peter Strode had been with Guthrie’s he would have had ample opportunity to cultivate Alexander. It was even possible he had taken him into his confidence. As for Deacon … he might be a drunkard, but he wouldn’t have jeopardized his position, risked what remained of his career, if Peter hadn’t been able to convince him it would be to his advantage. To charm two such different birds as Alexander and Deacon … My thoughts were interrupted by the phone. It was West, Wright, Turner & Company, the solicitors. Somehow Turner had heard I was back. He wanted to see me. I made an appointment for Monday morning and shortly afterwards I left to take the train north.
The school holidays had started and the children were staying with my sister at Sheilhaugh, the 300 acre farm on the edge of the Lammermuirs that was all that was left of my family’s Border estates. I hadn’t been there since my mother’s death.
Agnes and her husband met me at the station and late though it was they had John and Mary with them. Strange how matter-of-fact children are about death. They asked questions, of course—some of them questions I found difficult to answer. But at that age the excitement of living is a moment-to-moment affair and death, like life, a natural thing to be accepted as an inevitable part of a world that is still fresh and new.
It was glorious weather all that week-end with spring in the air and the grass sweet on the moors where sheep grazed with their growing lambs. And when I took the train south on the Sunday evening I felt I had stolen a moment of time that belonged to childhood days. For the first time in years, it seemed, I had been happy—completely and absolutely happy.
I had not realized that the background of the company for which I was now working had registered with the children. But as we stood on the platform waiting for the train John suddenly said with great seriousness, “Will we have ships of our own again now?” His small face was alight with eagerness. “I’m going to sea like you. Only I’d like it to be in one of our ships.” God knows what Agnes’s husband, Jock McLeod, had told him. He was a marine engineering consultant in Glasgow and he’d no use for Strode Orient. He’d made that very clear over a drink the previous night. “Their maintenance record is poor and so are the conditions of service. It’s a bad line to work for and a man like you should either get out or do something about it.”
“When we build a ship,” Mary said, “can I launch her? You know, champagne on the bows and everything.” They had it all worked out for me and as the train pulled out I wondered how any father could ever measure up to the hopes of his offspring. What they had in their eager little minds was an absurd, impossible idea; or was it? At least I had taken the first tentative step. I was in Strode House. And next morning, in Turner’s office, I was given a fleeting glimpse of a larger prospect.
The old man looked even frailer than when I had seen him three weeks before. “So you found Peter and he’s accepted the directorship.” He knew all about the Strode Venturer and for several minutes he questioned me closely. He was very short of breath, but though his body was ailing, there was nothing wrong with his mind, which was clear and very active. “If Peter wants to rebuild his father’s empire he must do it within the framework of the existing companies. I hope he realizes that.” And he added, “He’ll have a tough fight on his hands. Is he prepared for that?”
“I think so,” I said. But I wasn’t sure. “His chief interest seems to be in helping the people of Addu Atoll.” And I told him about Don Mansoor and the vedis. I thought he had a right to know what Peter Strode’s real motives were. He listened in silence, without comment, as I gave him the gist of the two conversations I had had with him on the island of Midu. And as I talked I couldn’t help feeling that his reference to building something for the future applied just as much to the Adduans as to Strode Orient. “He seems to have identified himself with the people there.” I was remembering what he had said about his search for a place to put down roots.
But it didn’t seem to worry Turner. “It was never money that interested Peter.” He was smiling quietly to himself. “What you have told me only confirms my assessment of him. Now that I have reached the end of my life I am better able to appreciate real values. Money must always be the servant, the means to something you really believe in. Since he has learned that so early in life
he may well prove to be a more formidable person than his father. This business of the Strode Venturer, for instance. You met Deacon, did you?”
“Yes.”
“Deacon would never have agreed to do it for money. You can’t buy men like that.” And he added, “Deacon was one of your father’s officers. Did you know that?”
I didn’t know it, but I had had a feeling he was. “And the Lammermuir—was that one of our ships?”
“Yes.” He nodded his head slowly. “Bailey Oriental tramps were all named after characters or places in Scott’s novels. The Waverleys they were known as when we took them over. I think the Lammermuir was one of the first. There were things about her, the accommodation and loading gear in particular, that made her somewhat revolutionary at that time.” He was doodling and I saw the name Deacon emerge in flowery script on the pad in front of him. “He took to drink, I believe. But you can’t blame him—he had a rough deal.” He looked up at me then, his watery eyes strangely bright. “I don’t pretend to understand what Peter is up to. What you have told me helps, but at this distance I cannot see into his mind. When do you expect him back?” And when I said two weeks, a month at the outside, he sighed. “Even that may be too late. My doctor——” He gave a little smile. “The body is only a mechanism and I’ve worked mine pretty hard. It tires eventually.”
He paused then and it was such a long pause I thought the interview was over. I started to get to my feet, but he waved me back and pressed the bell-push on his desk. “Ask Mrs. Roche to come in,” he told his clerk.
A moment later Peter Strode’s sister was shown into the office. The old man didn’t rise, but he took her hand in both of his and held it for a moment. “Sorry to keep you waiting, my dear, but I wanted a word with this young man first.” The clerk pulled up a chair for her and she gave me a fleeting smile as she sat down. “You’ve met, I think.” The old man had picked up his pencil again and was drawing, his head bent, and I could have sworn there were tears in his eyes. “I’ve no children of my own. I’ve always thought of you, Ida—and Peter …” He dropped the pencil and looked up at me. “Have you told her about your meeting with Peter?”
I nodded and Ida Roche said, “He phoned me when he got back.”
“Good. Then I needn’t go over that.” He put his thin hands on the desk as though bracing himself for a long speech. “I don’t get about and meet people the way I used to, but I still have contacts in the City and there is always the telephone. And I still know where to go for information about Strode affairs.” He was talking to Ida Roche now. “When your father died I lost interest, of course, and my interest didn’t revive until Peter made this decision to go into Guthrie & Company. When I realized he was serious I got a merchant banking friend to make a detailed analysis for me of the finances and trading prospects of Strode Orient together with the share distribution of the company and that of the parent concern. From that analysis two things emerged. One, that Strode Orient had become a plum ready to fall into a clever man’s hands. The other, that the key to any take-over was not the obvious one, Strode Orient, but Strode & Company. If this bores you, my dear, I must ask you to bear with me because it’s important, and as you will see in a moment I have taken action to avoid a certain possibility that might otherwise stop Peter in his tracks.”
Ida Roche shook her dark head, smiling. “No. On the contrary, I find it fascinating. Anything concerning Peter has always fascinated me. He’s that sort of person. Do you mind if I smoke?”
“No, no. I’m past caring about the effects of tobacco smoke.”
She had already taken a small gold case from her bag. I lit her cigarette, and her eyes, glancing at me over the flame, had a speculative expression as though she were seeing me for the first time and wondering what sort of person I was. It may be that intuitively she had guessed what was coming, though she denied it later.
“This is a little technical,” the old man continued, “but I will try and explain it to you in simple terms. I have told you that the key to any take-over of the Strode Orient Line is control of the parent company. But Peter does not have control of Strode & Company. He has a hundred and seventeen thousand of the half million shares in issue, and now that he’s a director he can’t sell without the agreement of the majority of the board. No director can. We wrote that into the Articles of Association as a safeguard. At the moment I am quite sure that the other directors do not intend to sell and are anxious that he should not sell either. But what if his behaviour—once on the board—made them change their minds? Suppose they decided to sell? In that case it is just possible control of Strode & Company—might pass into—other hands.” He had become very breathless and he paused, dabbing at his lips with his handkerchief.
Ida Roche leaned forward, a little movement of sympathy. “Please, you don’t have to explain your reasons. Just tell us what you’ve decided.”
“No, Ida. You’re entitled to know, not only—what I’ve done, but why.” There was silence then whilst he gathered his reserves of strength. “All my life I have been concerned with the tortuous minds of men who deal in finance. I could see what the line of attack must be and over the last few months I have set out to block it. I am a fairly rich man, but to buy control of a shipping line was quite beyond my means. What I did was to buy Strode shares. I now hold over sixty thousand of them. With Peter’s holding and yours, Ida, we control between us over forty per cent of the equity. It does not give us absolute control, but it is a strong position and will I hope be sufficient, since the rest of the family, plus the outside directors, hold no more than a hundred and sixteen thousand. It will depend on how many shares can still be bought in the market.”
He paused again and now his eyes were directed at me. “I have only seen you once before and my contacts with your mother and father were in somewhat trying circumstances. Since you came here a few weeks ago I have instituted inquiries. I have what amounts to a complete dossier on you right here.” And he tapped a folder on his desk. “My opinion is that you have inherited some, but not all, of your father’s qualities. I am not in a position to make an exact assessment of your potentialities. But at least you have been bred to the sea and though there is nothing in your record to suggest that you are possessed of originality or more than average initiative, you appear honest, hard-working—in fact, a thoroughly reliable man. It was this last characteristic that decided me—that and a certain sense of justice—in what I now propose.”
He let go of his desk and sagged back in his chair as though, now that the decision was taken, he could relax. “I have today added a codicil to my Will. The shares I hold in Strode & Company will pass to you at my death and they are protected from sale by my executors for the purposes of estate duty. You understand? I’m giving you what I hope amounts to final control of Strode & Company in the event of a showdown between Peter and the others.” And he added, “The market price this morning is fifteen and six. They have risen six shillings in a fortnight and the inference I draw from that is that Lingrose and his friends are mopping up the last few shares still held in public hands. I have seen this sort of thing happen before and I know what it means. The heat is on and they are pressing for control by one means or another.”
He put his handkerchief to his lips again, his face darkly mottled, his body slumped. “I think I must ask you both—to leave now. I just wanted you—to understand, Ida.”
“Of course.” Her voice was very quiet and restrained, the huskiness reduced almost to a whisper. “It was kind of you to explain.” She had got to her feet and she went round the desk and took his hands. “Is there anything we can do for you?”
“No, my dear. Nothing. Nothing at all. Just remember me once in a while when I’m gone.” He smiled faintly. “I’m not certain—not yet—but I think perhaps it helps to be remembered sometimes.”
“Of course.” She smiled. “Often. But it’s not yet.”
“Very soon now, I fear.”
I, too, had got to my feet.
It was difficult to explain how I felt. It was a lot of money to be handed by a stranger, a man I hadn’t known existed until a few weeks before. I didn’t think of it like that, of course. It was the obligation that hit me, the realization that with the lawyer’s knowledge of human reactions he’d tied me to Strode House for life. What he had done was to give me back part of the responsibility and power that should have been mine by birth and he’d done it in a way that had made me both a check and a prop to the man in whom he was really interested.
“Are you sure this is really what you want?” I asked him. I was still a little dazed or I would have realized he wasn’t the sort of man who didn’t know his own mind.
“Quite sure,” he snapped. And it wasn’t until Ida and I were going down the dark stone stairway together that I realized I hadn’t thanked him, hadn’t even said good-bye. I’d walked out of his office, leaving her alone with him, and had waited outside, my mind full of the future, realizing gradually the full extent of the obligation—and the challenge—I had had thrust upon me. And then she came out, dry-eyed but emotionally upset, and we walked down the stairway together without saying a word, out into the spring sunshine.
We walked through Lincoln’s Inn and across Kingsway and came to Covent Garden, neither of us having thought of taking a taxi or of going our separate ways. Once she said, “He knows he’s dying.” And later: “He’s been in our lives always—a sort of rock, something solid to cling to when we were in trouble.” She wasn’t upset about it any more, but the break in her voice showed the depth of her feeling. “I shall miss him.” And after that she didn’t say anything until we crossed the Market and came to the Round House pub by Moss Bros. “I think I’d like a drink,” she said then.
The Strode Venturer Page 12
