by Hugh Canham
‘What a disgraceful way to behave,’ said Mrs Elroy in a loud voice. ‘Going back to antique dealing indeed! I remember he told me he’d been in antiques when he first came, but said he’d had a calling to the Ministry. I hope he was not implicated in any way with the theft of my altar.’ She glared ferociously at it as she said this.
Hector pulled a face.
Ah yes, Jim might well have had a hand in it, he thought, if he was fed up with the church being unlocked all the time and was considering leaving the Ministry. But to prove it . . . ?
But Mrs Elroy was speaking again.
‘Absolutely disgraceful! I shall report him to the Bishop.’
‘But Mother, if he’s left the Church, the Bishop can hardly do anything about it, can he?’
‘You may be right. But I shall still report him. He should be unfrocked – or whatever it’s called these days.’
But Lucasta patted her arm and whispered in her ear.
‘At least you’re rid of him. Let’s go home and have breakfast. I really think that would be best. Otherwise we’ll get involved in the discussion that’s going on amongst the rest of the congregation over there.’
Mrs Elroy turned to her. ‘Quite right, my dear. You’re so sensible. Hector’s very lucky.’
5
April 1970
‘Why are you limping like that, Hector?’ asked Lucasta.
‘Touch of gout, I’m afraid. There’s no need to laugh. It’s bloody painful and nothing to do with port and red wine and all those other tales. It’s a metabolic disease and hereditary!’
‘Did your father have it?’
‘Well, no, but I think Mother has it from time to time. Anyhow, it’s extremely inconvenient as I have to go away and possibly stay overnight to negotiate a sale for some clients. And that art expert of yours has just rung up to say he has some very exciting news about the cherub painting. You know, the one I brought over from Gloria in America. He wanted me to go round straight away and see him, but I can’t – I’m expected in Kent by midday.’
‘Oh dear! How will you drive with gout in your foot?’
‘Well, fortunately the gout is in the left foot and, as you know, the Rolls is automatic, so I shall only have to use my right foot.’
‘And why are you telling me all this?’
‘Well, first of all, I was hoping for a bit of sympathy, and secondly, I was hoping you would go and talk to this picture expert and see what all the fuss is about. It was you who recommended him, after all.’
‘But I don’t actually know him personally.’
‘I see. I thought you did. Well anyway, you’ll talk to him more intelligently than I would be able to!’
‘What do you want me to do about all these books?’ Lucasta indicated about two hundred and fifty obviously very old volumes covered in vellum and leather which she’d laid out on the library table.
‘What do you mean?’ replied Hector irritably.
‘Well, I’m not an expert on this sort of thing. They’re very old and I think I shall have to get an antiquarian bookseller to help me.’
‘Well, get one then!’
‘But on what basis? Do you want him to value the books in order for them to go to auction, or do you want him just to look them over and make an offer?’
‘I don’t really mind.’
‘But Hector, these dealers can rip you off, you know!’
‘Ah, I suppose so!’ Hector was getting visibly agitated during this conversation. ‘Look, I leave it to you. I must go. And will you please go and see the art expert?’
‘When?’
‘Well . . . now. He seemed very worked up on the phone just now!’
Lucasta dragged off her plastic shower cap that she had taken to wearing all the time she worked, although it wasn’t really necessary any more.
‘Okay, I suppose so.’
‘Good girl!’
‘Look, Hector, I’m Lucasta – I’m not your “good girl”!’
‘Oh, sorry. Just wanted you to know I’m pleased with you, that’s all. Look, must get a move on. Jolly’s having to bring the car round from the garage for me. I’m a bit slow.’ And with that he limped out of the library.
Despite the painful throbbing emanating from time to time from the big toe on his left foot, Hector felt pleased with life as he drove down the A20. The Ashmolds were long-standing clients of his father and he was gratified that they had consulted him about the proposed sale of their jam-making business.
‘It’s all getting too much trouble, growing the fruit and then making it into jam as well,’ Michael Ashmold had explained to him. ‘We have endless problems with staff as the work is seasonal. I think we ought just to grow the fruit and have a long-term contract with the local jam-makers to make the jams, under our name if they want. Anyhow, there are various ways the deal could be structured. Olsens are bringing their lawyer to a meeting to discuss it all, so we’d like you to be there too.’
What a very nice and reasonable young man he sounded, thought Hector as he had put the phone down on their earlier conversation. He assumed that Michael was the son of old Horace Ashmold. Pity he didn’t know more about the family background. He’d tried consulting his father’s files under ‘A’ but most of the Ashmold files seemed to be missing. He had, however, elicited the address of the farm and discovered that it covered approximately 1,000 acres. Quite a large business.
It was a very pleasant place, and looked lovely in the April sunshine, Hector thought as he drove into the front drive leading up to a large timber-framed farmhouse with extensive lawns around it and vast but agreeable farm buildings in the background. A young man approached the car as he came to a stop.
‘Hello, you must be Hector. You look very like your father. I’m Michael.’
As they shook hands, Hector thought he seemed different from the calm person he’d spoken to on the telephone. His face was white and his hands were shaking and sweaty.
‘Look, could we just take a turn on the lawn before we go inside and meet the others? I’m afraid there’s been an unfortunate development, and I should like your advice.’
‘Would you mind if we just sat on this garden seat? I’m afraid I’ve got a touch of gout.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I remember your father had it from time to time.’
‘I never knew that!’
‘Ah yes, he did. But look, I must tell you all this quickly. As you know, we thought of doing a deal with this local jam-making firm, Olsens, for them to make our fruit into jam, maybe using our name. My old man and my sister are the other shareholders in the company that owns the farm – but no doubt you knew that already – and they seemed to think it was a good idea. But when it comes down to it, I’m the one who runs the show completely these days. Pop’s in a wheelchair and Sis is only interested in her showjumpers. Anyhow, Olsens seem to have worked a flanker. Mr Olsen says he wants to buy the place outright and has made a huge offer. He spoke to Pop on the phone last night. Pop and Sis are cock-a-hoop and all for it. They’re planning to buy a small place together with some paddocks so she can do her showjumping and he can decline gracefully into old age. They don’t seem to have thought about me. This place is my life, particularly since my wife died last year.’ He swept his left arm around the horizon and then lit a cigarette with trembling hands.
‘Oh dear,’ said Hector. ‘That’s a bit problematic for me too – you see, I’m acting for the company that owns the farm – Ashmold Farms Limited, I think it’s called.’
‘That’s right. Pop owns fifty per cent of the shares and Sis and I own twenty-five per cent each – left to us by our mother.’
‘Well, you see, if there’s a conflict of interest between the shareholders, each of you – or those who are in disagreement rather – may have to be separately represented.’
‘But not at this stage, surely! For God’s sake, can’t you at least tell me what my legal rights are?’
‘I suppose so,’ agreed Hector reluctantly,
wiggling his left foot. The pain in his big toe was getting worse and he really would have to take another couple of painkillers as soon as an opportunity presented itself. ‘Presumably there’s an agreement in the company’s Memo and Arts that if one or some of the shareholders want to sell their shares, the other shareholders have the right of first refusal? If so, that would mean you would be able to buy your father’s and sister’s shares, but of course at market price, which would presumably be seventy-five per cent of what Mr Olsen is offering.’
‘Bloody hell! Where could I find that sort of money?’
‘A difficulty of course! But you might be able to borrow some of the money and/or bring in a new partner.’
‘I’ve been running this place for four years now and I want it to stay that way,’ retorted Michael Ashmold furiously.
‘Well, maybe Mr Olsen will be prepared to buy out your dad and your sister and you could stay on with your twenty-five per cent?’
‘And be a minority shareholder!’
‘As you are now.’
‘But there’s a big difference between having your dad and sister as the other shareholders and old Ernest Olsen. He’s a tough bastard!’
‘Well, maybe we could arrange for a service contract for you as managing director with an option for Mr Olsen to buy your shares at a pre-arranged price if you wanted to go. Do you get paid by your father and sister for running the place now?’
‘Yes. They pay me a decent salary before we split up the profits.’
‘I must emphasise that I’m acting for the company, but I don’t see why we shouldn’t have a discussion about all this. Would you, for instance, be prepared to stay on on the basis I’ve just described?’
‘Oh God! I don’t know. I think I’d hate it. All I wanted was just to get rid of the ruddy jam-making business!’
‘Well, let’s see what we can do, shall we?’ said Hector, rising painfully to his feet. ‘Are the others inside already?’
‘Yes, Pop is telling Mr Olsen what a wonderful place this is to live in. I think myself that’s why Olsen wants it. The farmhouse, you see. Well, it’s my home and always has been. I was born here. And Olsen’s got a hard little lady solicitor acting for him. You know the type. Smart suit, glinting eyes, blonde hair and lots of make-up. The other bloke with him is his company secretary. He’s there as a sort of back-up yes-man.’
Mr Olsen was about fifty. He had a handshake like iron and an extravagantly checked sports jacket. His team were seated either side of him. The solicitor, introduced as Miss Sally Koy, barely acknowledged Hector and Michael as they came into what was obviously the dining room. She was wearing a tight-fitting black suit, a grey polo-necked jumper and a string of pearls. Her heavily lacquered hair was cut in a long bob with a fringe. Her eyes were piercing blue and indeed glinted fiercely behind her steel-rimmed spectacles.
Old Mr Ashmold was sitting at the table opposite Mr Olsen. He looked very frail. His shoulders were bent and his face was pale, and he had a hearing aid in each ear. When Hector was introduced to him by Michael, he responded, ‘Knew your father well – wonderful chap . . . so amusing!’
Hector had never known his father to be amusing, and what with that comment and the one about the gout, he wondered if somehow he’d ever known his father properly at all.
By Horace Ashmold’s side was ‘Sis’, introduced as Linda. She was a large, hearty-looking girl wearing a woolly jumper and jodhpurs.
Michael Ashmold sat at the top of the table and Hector sat down next to him, groping in his pocket for the painkillers when he saw that there was a glass of water on the table in front of him.
‘I’ve told Mr Elroy the up-to-date position,’ said Michael.
‘Michael wants to be kept on to run the place, you know,’ said Horace to everyone in general and to Hector in particular.
‘I cannot allow my client to agree to that,’ announced the lady solicitor.
‘Why on earth not?’ exploded Michael.
‘In our opinion, and having looked at the place and the accounts from the last three years, we don’t think it’s being run as profitably as it could be.’
‘Well, that’s straight between the eyes,’ thought Hector.
‘Moreover, my client wishes to live in this house if he purchases. So it’s an all-or-nothing situation, I’m afraid.’
‘Mr Olsen, this all started out as my wanting to get you to run the jam-making side of the business for me, and I thought you’d agreed in principle. Now it’s all turned on its head. You want to buy me out. Why the change?’ asked Michael.
‘Sally here advised me that it would be the best thing from my point of view, and I always take Sally’s advice. I’ve found it very sound over the three years that she’s been acting for me.’
‘I see,’ said Michael bitterly, and then, turning to his father and sister, ‘and I gather both of you agree to the sale?’
Both nodded.
‘Sorry Michael, but you’ll have plenty of money. You can start up somewhere else again if you really want to go on fruit farming, but I’ve had enough. Linda has never been interested, as you know,’ said Horace.
Michael snorted. ‘You seem to have sorted all this out very well between you behind my back. I suppose you’ve been into the tax position?’
‘Yes we have,’ said Linda smugly, ‘it’s not too bad at all.’
‘So you’re determined to sell your shares in the company whether or not I agree, is that right?’
‘That’s correct – isn’t it, Pop?’ said Linda. ‘Well, we’re advised that we have to offer them first to you at market price, but we’re sure that you won’t be able to afford to buy us out.’
Pop nodded.
‘In that case,’ said Sally, ‘and with my client’s agreement, the next step is for me to send Mr Elroy a draft agreement for the sale of the shares for consideration. I’ll have one ready in the next couple of days.’
‘Well, that’s it then – nothing more to be done,’ thought Hector. He hadn’t even opened his briefcase, despite having previously thought he might be there for two days. He glanced at Michael, who looked as though he was in abject misery. He resolved on making a rapid exit and a speedy drive back to London. But as he limped out into the hall as quickly as he could, having said brief farewells to everyone, Michael rushed after him and grabbed him by the arm.
‘Look, come in here for a few moments please, Hector.’ He pulled Hector into what was obviously the farm office and sat down behind his desk, his elbows resting on it and cupping his head in his hands.
‘It’s that little bitch Sally!’
‘Obviously Mr Olsen follows her advice very closely!’
‘You can say that again. Christ, I’m angry! Look, Hector, I hate to ask you this, but couldn’t you try and talk to her, get her to see there are other ways? What a bloody nerve saying I’m not running the place profitably! Pop and Sis must have given old Olsen the farm accounts on the quiet.’
‘And would you say you’re running the place efficiently?’
‘Look, I married three years ago. Three months later my wife developed leukaemia. She died six months ago. Could anyone be super-efficient with all that going on?’
‘It must have been very difficult.’
‘In the circumstances I think I did very well, and now that I’ve more or less got over Muriel’s death, I was looking forward to making the place really profitable again, like it was when Pop was in his prime.’
‘Ah, I see – your father ran the place very profitably. Could that be a reason for his wanting to sell over your head?’
‘You may be right, but I think there are other reasons too. Pop and Sis live in a separate part of the house. We made the arrangement when I got married, and as a result I haven’t seen too much of them. So over the last few years, we’ve rather grown apart.’
‘Well, I don’t see what I can do to help you, although I’d like to. I don’t think it would be proper for me to try and persuade your father and
sister not to sell as they’ve made it clear they want to.’
‘I know – but would it be improper for you to speak to Sally and try and get her to see my point of view? Give me a chance to make the place more profitable?’
‘It may or may not be improper, but I’m sure, having seen her and how she works, she wouldn’t listen.’
‘Look, please try! I know she came down by train, so offer her a lift back to town in your Rolls and just talk to her, would you? Please!’
Michael sat there looking totally miserable. He was now smoking his fifth cigarette and Hector, as he often did when people were really upset, weakened, although he knew he should have refused.
‘Very well. I’ll have a go. I don’t think she’ll agree to come with me though!’
‘Do you know, I could strangle her!’ were Michael’s final words as Hector left him in the office.
Sally Koy was still in the hall and, contrary to Hector’s expectation, seemed very pleased by the idea of a lift back to London.
‘Why are you limping?’ she asked him as they made their way outside.
‘Touch of gout.’
‘Oh dear. Too much good living, maybe! Is yours the Rolls?’
Hector did not think this insinuation that he was to blame for his gout was a good start, but he opened the passenger door to let Sally in. First she nonchalantly threw her very expensive-looking briefcase and overcoat onto the back seat, and then she carefully swivelled her skirt round by the waistband so it was back to front. Hector regarded this manoeuvre with some amazement.
‘Prevents bagging,’ was the only explanation he got.
As he limped round to the driver’s side and got in, he noticed that Sally had settled back in the leather seat, taken off her shoes and put her feet up on the dashboard. Although extremely surprised, Hector could not help but notice that she had the most exquisitely shaped slender legs.
‘Like to relax when meetings are over, don’t you?’
‘Er. . . sometimes.’
‘By the way, if you think you’re going to get me to change my mind about my advice to Olsen, you’re mistaken. It must be the right deal for him, you see. He wants to live in the house – he’s fallen in love with it!’
