William sat open mouthed, staring across the desk at the solicitor.
“Fifty million pounds. He has left fifty million pounds to a person he had never been introduced to? Why? No, why is irrelevant. I’m not interested I don’t want it. This is ludicrous, an insult. What does Ernest Sanderson want that is so important? His money can’t buy him everything. It can’t buy me.”
Rising out of his chair, he prepared to leave.
“Thank you for your time Mr Thrasher. I hope you are successful in finding someone else to take over whatever he wanted doing. Perhaps it might be prudent to try to match the task to the person with a little more care on your next attempt. Good bye.”
William turned and walked to the door. Grasping the handle, he twisted it and started to pull the door towards himself.
“His money can’t buy him his life either. He’s dead and for whatever reason has nominated you as his successor in whatever quest he was pursuing. He isn’t trying to use his money to buy you or corrupt you. He needs you to perform a service for him and for that service he is willing to pay well; that is all. I have no idea what the tasks are that you have been set. With regret, you need to be aware that Ernest insisted that the shortlist was very short; you. You appear to be intelligent, erudite and thoughtful. The regret constituent of my previous sentence is that you have no choice. As I explained to you earlier, when you queried how flexible the arrangement was, you are legally bound since you signed the original document. Please Mr Bacchus, sit down.”
William hesitated by the door for a moment. Had one single signature, given to enable him to exercise his curiosity, really left him out of control?
“Mr Bacchus,” the solicitor’s hand extended across the desk indicating the seat opposite him,
“Please sit down. I have a couple of other items to cover and after that you can decide if you want to tell me to ‘get stuffed’ and take your chances in court or to show that the faith that Ernest has placed in you was not misguided.”
William walked back across the office and sat in the seat opposite Gerald Thrasher. Continuing, Thrasher started to read from a sheet of paper in front of him.
“We have covered the compensation clause sufficiently for the moment, now onto the confirmation of fulfilment of the terms of the bequest. This will be dealt with by a person or person named in the bequest. Now, confidentiality. I have been asked to prepare a simple document for your signature confirming you will use your best endeavours to maintain the discretion required by this manner of undertaking.” Thrasher passed a single sheet of paper across to William and indicated where he should sign. William looked at the sheet in front of him and then looked up and stared into Thrasher eyes. Without shifting his gaze he tapped the paper in front of him and asked,
“What is in the bequest that would require me to sign a document that confirms that I will try to keep everything detailed in this legacy secret? I have had to sign a legal document before you would even agree to meet with me. When I arrived, I discover that by signing this document, I have committed myself to Ernest Sanderson’s wishes before I know the first thing about them. I have agreed to commit myself; irrespective of any other commitments I might have, for a period of time of which I am not aware. I have been gifted a vast amount of money, a bookshop and the promise of other properties. However; I have to complete one or more tasks to satisfy the terms of the bequest and release this munificent gift. I am to have access to funds to compensate me while I perform this task or tasks and this sum is very generous. I will be told when I have completed whatever has to be completed and when I can, therefore, resume my former life. Further, I now discover that it is obligatory that I sign a document confirming that I will keep the contents of the bequest as secret as is practicable. All of this I am legally bound to do. Would you describe that as a fair summation of the facts Mr Thrasher?”
Thrasher nodded. William continued,
“As you are the bringer of this aggregation of restrictions and requirements, I have one final question before I agree to sign any more of Mr Sanderson’s pieces of paper. What does the bequest require me to do?”
Thrasher looked awkward and his left eye twitched twice before he said,
“I have no idea. When I stated a few moments ago that I had no idea of the tasks detailed in the bequest, I meant it. I have a sealed package and an envelope for you. My instructions were to ascertain that you were William Bacchus, answer any legal questions you might have and then give you the package. At this point, you can of course take me into your confidence and I will assist you to the best of my ability or, you can leave my office with the package and that will be the end of our association.”
Thrasher stood up and walked over to a door set into the far wall of his office. Inside that door was the solid steel door of a walk-in safe with a large handle on the right of the door and in the middle a circular combination dial. Using his body to shield the dial from William he twirled the dial then twisted the handle and pulled open the safe door. He disappeared for a moment and then reappeared carrying a substantial, padded envelope and a smaller A4 envelope, both with the name William Bacchus on them in a fine italic script. Thrasher placed them on the table in front of William along with a paper knife and sat down opposite him.
The smaller envelope had, as well as his name, an instruction to open it in the office of Gerald Thrasher. Taking the paper knife, he slit open the top of the envelope and took out a short hand written letter and a cheque. Putting the cheque on top of the larger envelope, he sat back and read the letter.
‘Dear William
If you are reading this letter then I am dead and buried or cremated and no longer able to continue the search for the truth regarding my brother Jonas’s death or to expose CHC Industries, for what, I’m not yet sure.
However, I am sure that this will have come as an immense shock to you, both the bequest and the position you now find yourself in because of the conditions I have imposed upon you. I can only apologise and hope that once you are aware of the full circumstances, you will be able to understand what I have done and perhaps forgive me for the path I have forced you to follow.
The enclosed cheque is to settle the account of Thrasher leaving you able to break all ties with him if you choose. I sincerely hope that you do, as I do not trust him. I have discovered that his name is used as a front for the law practice in which he is a ‘senior partner.’ This practice provides the legal expertise to people who I expect will try to stop you completing the requirements of this bequest.
Whatever your decision, do not reveal the contents of the bequest to him under any circumstances. I suspect that he has associations that will not help your cause and may impede you.
The large padded envelope contains details of your bequest along with the key to a significant amount of background material, which will help to bring you up to speed. There is also a more detailed letter in the larger envelope. The large padded envelope should be a cream handmade envelope using a very high quality handmade paper. The envelope of the letter you are reading is also made of the same paper and both have been signed and wax sealed across the flaps. If you have any doubt as to whether or not they have been tampered with, contact Dave Rogers at Wookey Hole in Somerset and he will test it for you. He has questions for you to answer to confirm your identity. Only you can have the answers. Thrasher knows what will happen if he has tampered with these documents or allowed it to happen.
Please burn or shred this letter before you leave Thrasher’s office. DO NOT LET HIM READ IT.
Yours
Ernest’
William continued to stare at the letter long after he had finished reading it. The letter’s instructions where clear and unambiguous, yet he hesitated. He had heard the name Ernest Sanderson for the first time a matter of weeks ago. He had never met the man, knew next to nothing about him, but was expected to trust him. His innate curiosity had needed satisfying, he had signed an innocuous disclaimer and now was legally bound to do
heaven knows what.
He could give everything back to Thrasher and walk away. It would be unlikely that Thrasher could sue him with any hope of success as he hadn’t seen anything and had received nothing. He could keep all the material and determine what he should do once he had read the background information that he was being given. He could trust Thrasher, ignoring the advice he had been given by Ernest Sanderson and see where that led him. It appeared that Mr Thrasher had been disingenuous. Purporting to be a close confidant of Ernest in an attempt to discover the contents of the bequest was at best stretching the truth. Looking up from the letter, he stared at Gerald Thrasher weighing up his options. Thrasher’s face appeared calm and impassive; the small tic at the corner of his left eye belied that impression.
Looking around the room, he spotted an electric crosscut shredder next to a bank of filing cabinets. He walked over to the shredder, turned it on and fed the letter in. Decision made. For better or worse, he was Ernest Sanderson’s man.
“What are you doing?” Thrasher yelled as he catapulted from behind his desk and crossed the room at a run. His left eye was twitching so rapidly, it appeared to be out of control blinking. Grabbing at the disappearing piece of paper, he tried to pull it out, but only succeeded in ripping off a small blank corner as the rest disappeared into the shredder. William walked back to the desk, picked up the large padded envelope and moved towards the door.
“I have left a cheque on your desk that I understand will settle your account in full. Thank you for your assistance in this matter. Good afternoon.”
Stunned, Gerald Thrasher said the first thing that came into his head. He had to keep Bacchus here, in his office until he had time to think and to call Felicity.
“That was a legal document. You can’t destroy legal documents. That constituted part of the estate of Ernest Sanderson.” Thrashers voice had risen to a shriek as he screamed the final two words. His hair was dishevelled and he had flecks of saliva on his chin. His tic was completely out of control, the whole of the left hand side of his face was in spasm. Astounded, William stood rooted to the spot staring at the unhinged solicitor screeching about a piece of paper. William said,
“The letter was private correspondence. As the addressee, whether I keep it, shred it, or publish it is entirely my decision. Thank you once again for your help. I’ll see myself out.”
As William walked through the secretary’s office and out into the corridor, the last thing he heard was a heavy object smash against the door and a primal scream,
“This is the beginning, not the end Bacchus. The beginning!”
Chapter 6
Felicity dialled a number into an untraceable mobile phone from memory. When she had completed the call the sim card would be destroyed and the phone would be wiped clean and dropped down a drain. She had learned from her grandfather that lack of forethought was unforgivable. Where security was concerned he had always been meticulous and, as a result, stayed alive and out of prison.
The man who answered the phone on its second ring said,
“Wait.”
The sounds of distant conversation could be heard as the man finished whatever business he was transacting. The voices faded and all she could hear were the click of shoes on a hard floor as the man walked for a minute or more. The clicking stopped and she heard a door closing and the man then spoke into the handset.
“Yes?” The question was direct without being terse.
“I might need your help again,” she followed his succinct form of speech which she knew he reserved for mobile phone conversations.
“Why?”
“Thrasher is an idiot and Sanderson was very clever. I had instructed Thrasher to copy all the documents relating to Sanderson’s will and the bequests he had made. Sanderson had booby trapped our ability to pry by using unique stationery that was traceable and testable by a specific person. Sanderson intimated if anything was attempted, especially if this occurred post-mortem, an investigation would begin and would involve Thrashers superiors. He had made a connection to us; how, I need to look into. However, it follows that he has included this in any information he has passed on. Therefore; William Bacchus might need to be removed.”
“When?”
“Not yet. We don’t yet know his connection to Sanderson or what was passed to him. If he becomes a problem I need you to have prepared for his demise. Not an accident. We need to send a message.”
There was a long pause before the man on the other end of the mobile phone spoke again.
“Charles would be proud. I am at your service.”
***
Ernest was sitting on a chair in his bedroom. He wasn’t sure how long he had been sitting. His watch said about an hour, the alarm clock on the bedside cabinet said ten minutes. Perhaps he hadn’t looked properly the last time he had glanced at either of them.
Her exit had a touch of class, rather dramatic; ‘Eternity really is a long time.’ he mimicked. Find himself a helper?
He had recognised early in his commercial career that he required two things in his assistants: the ability to work without constant supervision - give them a project and let them get on with it. Plus, the gift of perception and cognition. The understanding might be of a report, a set of accounts or of a person. Also, intuition, perception, perhaps a sixth sense, so he could use them as a sounding board, a backstop for his own thoughts. If they had all of these attributes or appeared to have the potential to develop at least some of them, then they were hired.
The only person he could offer Juanita as his helper was William Bacchus. The product of a brief affair before he had met Jess. The boy had proven to be bright, very bright and he would have fitted into the company with ease, if his chosen career had been secular.
“Who have you chosen?” The question wasn’t adversarial, a complete change to their last conversation.
“Or should I ask if you have chosen anyone?”
Ernest grimaced, holding his hands out in front of him, expressing the difficulties he was having.
“I might have someone who is possible. A faint hope. I don’t know them well, at all really. We are going to have to consider them though as I can’t think of anyone else who I would trust to take out the rubbish, let alone have some control over whether I’m here forever or not.”
Juanita smiled and nodded to encourage him,
“Who is it?”
“Before I answer can you tell me a little about how we contact them, converse with them, explain what we need and why they should help?”
Struggling to maintain a rein on her patience, Juanita paced the confines of the room for a moment while she considered how to answer him.
“I have had many centuries of experience and as a consequence have amassed a number of techniques to help us facilitate contact, conversation and avoid affecting our subject’s sanity.” She paused. Before she could continue, Ernest interrupted,
“Humour me. Share your centuries of experience. The reason I ask for this reassurance is that I have never met or talked to our prospective helper and have no idea how they will react. As well as overcoming the normal obstacles, that I am sure you will have any number of solutions for; we have to persuade them to help a total stranger.”
Juanita was astonished. Had he not listened to one word she had said?
“The only person you can choose is a stranger? Family is what you need. Synergy, a sympathetic ear, a person who is interested in helping you. At a push a good friend, a distant relative, not Juan Marquis from the street corner. I thought we had covered this, you need to have a connection with them, and you will need to influence them. How do you plan to influence a person you have never spoken to, a person who has no idea you exist?”
A smile played on his lips as he looked up at her and said,
“He’ll know I exist soon enough. He’s the main beneficiary to my estate.”
“Your estate? Why?” confused she waited for his answer.
“He’s my son.”
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***
Gerald Thrasher stared at the broken decanter in front of his office door and the whiskey that ran in rivulets down the door and onto the carpet. He then looked down at the telephone on his desk and contemplated the telephone call he should be making.
Taking a deep breath, he ran his fingers through his thinning hair, fighting to regain his composure. As his breathing and heart rate returned to normal and the spasms of his face subsided, he considered whether he should assist William Bacchus or obstruct him. Squirming in embarrassment as he recalled the scene in his office a few minutes before, he concluded that Mr Bacchus deserved as long as he could give him without putting his own position in jeopardy.
Outwardly, Thrasher was still Felicity’s whipping boy and toady. He absorbed her abuse and displayed cringing sycophancy in her presence; it was expected. Her bark could still be terrifying but her bite had lost a lot of its edge. He surreptitiously pushed the boundaries, judging the moment to push and when overt submission was required. Today he felt confident he could be a little bolder than was normal.
Satisfied that he had made the correct decision, he checked his watch, smiled and picked up the telephone to dial. The mobile was answered after precisely three rings as he knew it would be. The only sound he heard was traffic noise coming through the receiver.
“Felicity?” The silence continued.
“He’s left and is on route to the station”
“When?” The quietness of her voice when she asked the question emphasised the venom with which the word was spoken. The aura of violence she exuded was evident even down a telephone line.
Lying, he answered,
“Five minutes ago. Waterloo to Salisbury. I would guess he is going to see his Bishop. They are good friends and after everything he has learnt today he is going to need someone to discuss it all with.”
“Is his departure point also a guess?”
Bacchus and Sanderson (Deceased) Page 5
