It felt more like a mile, but he certainly couldn’t miss the vast, redbrick Victorian edifice, which John Betjeman would have admired.
Seb didn’t even have to pass through the school gates before he spotted what he was looking for. A prominent notice announced an appeal for £10,000 to build a new theatre for the school. Next to it was a large drawing of a thermometer, but Seb observed that the red line only reached £1,766. To learn more about the project, please contact Mr. Maurice Swann MA (Oxon) on Shifnal 2613.
Seb wrote down two numbers in his diary, 8234 and 2613, then turned and headed back toward the High Street. In the distance he spotted a red telephone box, and he was pleased to see it wasn’t occupied. He stepped inside and rehearsed his lines for a few moments, before checking the number in his diary. He dialed 2613, pressed four pennies into the slot, and waited for some time before an elderly voice answered.
“Maurice Swann.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Swann. My name is Clifton. I’m the head of corporate donations for Farthings Bank, and we are considering making a donation to your theatre appeal. I wonder if it might be possible for us to meet. I would of course be quite happy to come and see you.”
“No, I’d prefer to meet at the school,” said Swann eagerly. “Then I can show you what we have planned.”
“That’s fine,” said Seb, “but unfortunately I’m only in Shifnal for the day, and will be returning to London this evening.”
“Then I’ll come over immediately. Why don’t I see you outside the school gates in ten minutes?”
“I look forward to meeting you,” said Seb. He put the phone down and quickly retraced his steps back to the grammar school. He didn’t have to wait long before he spotted a frail-looking gentleman walking slowly toward him with the aid of a stick.
After Seb had introduced himself, Swann said, “As you have such a short time, Mr. Clifton, why don’t I take you straight through to the Memorial Hall, where I can show you the architect’s plans for the new theatre and answer any questions you might have.”
Seb followed the old man through the school gates, across the yard, and into the hall, while listening to him talk about the importance of young people having their own theatre and what a difference it would make to the local community.
Seb took his time studying the detailed architect’s drawings that were pinned to the wall, while Swann continued to enthuse about the project.
“As you can see, Mr. Clifton, although we will have a proscenium arch, there would still be enough room backstage to store props, while the actors standing in the wings won’t be cramped, and if I raise the full amount the boys and girls will be able to have separate dressing rooms.” He stood back. “My life’s dream,” he admitted, “which I hope to see completed before I die. But may I ask why your bank would be interested in a small project in Shifnal?”
“We are currently buying land in the area on behalf of clients who are interested in taking advantage of the government’s latest tax incentives. We realize that’s not likely to be popular in the village, so we’ve decided to support some local projects.”
“Would one of those pieces of land be Shifnal Farm?”
Seb was taken by surprise by Swann’s question, and it was some time before he managed, “No, we looked at Mr. Collingwood’s property and on balance decided it was overpriced.”
“How many children do you think I’ve taught in my lifetime, Mr. Clifton?”
“I’ve no idea,” said Seb, puzzled by the question.
“Just over three thousand, so I know when someone is trying to get away with only telling me half the story.”
“I’m not sure I understand, sir.”
“You understand all too well, Mr. Clifton. The truth is, you’re on a fishing trip, and you have absolutely no interest in my theatre. What you really want to know is why someone is willing to pay one point six million pounds for Shifnal Farm, when no one else has bid anywhere near that amount. Am I right?”
“Yes,” admitted Seb. “And if I knew the answer to that question, I’m sure my bank would be willing to make a substantial donation toward your new theatre.”
“When you’re an old man, Mr. Clifton, and you will be one day, you’ll find you have a bit of time on your hands, especially if you’ve led an active and worthwhile life. So when someone bid far too much for Shifnal Farm, my curiosity got the better of me, and I decided to spend some of my spare time trying to find out why. I began, like any good detective, by looking for clues, and I can tell you that after six months of diligent research, following up even the most unlikely leads, I now know exactly why someone is willing to pay way over the asking price for Shifnal Farm.”
Seb could feel his heart thumping.
“And if you want to know what it is that I’ve found out, you won’t just make a substantial donation to the school theatre, you’ll finance the entire project.”
“But what if you’re wrong?”
“That’s a risk you’re going to have to take, Mr. Clifton, because there’s only a couple of days before the bidding closes.”
“Then you must also be willing to take the risk,” said Seb, “because I’m not going to fork out over eight thousand pounds unless, and until, you’re proved right.”
“Before I agree to that, it’s my turn to ask you a question.”
“Of course,” said Seb.
“Are you, by any chance, related to Harry Clifton, the author?”
“Yes, he’s my father.”
“I thought I saw a resemblance. Although I’ve never read any of his books, I’ve followed his campaign for Anatoly Babakov with great interest, and if Harry Clifton is your father, that’s good enough for me.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Seb.
“Now, sit down, young man, because time is against us.”
Seb perched on the edge of the stage, while Swann took him slowly through the meticulous research he’d carried out during the past six months, that had led him to only one conclusion. A conclusion Seb couldn’t find fault with. He jumped down from the stage.
“May I ask you one more question before I leave, sir?”
“Of course, young man.”
“Why didn’t you tell Collingwood what you’d discovered? After all, he couldn’t have lost a penny if he didn’t have to pay up until you were proved right.”
“I taught Dan Collingwood when he was at the grammar school,” said Swann. “Even as a boy he was greedy and stupid, and he hasn’t improved much since. But he wasn’t interested in what I might have to tell him, just fobbed me off with a five-pound donation and wished me luck.”
“So you haven’t told this to anyone else?” said Seb, trying not to sound anxious.
The old man hesitated for a moment. “I did tell one other person,” he admitted, “but I haven’t heard from him since.”
Seb didn’t need to ask his name.
* * *
Sebastian knocked on the door of 37 Cadogan Place just after eight o’clock. Cedric answered the summons and, without a word, led his young protégé through to the drawing room. Seb’s eyes immediately settled on a Hockney landscape hanging above the fireplace, before he admired the Henry Moore maquette on the sideboard. Seb didn’t doubt that if Picasso had been born in Yorkshire his work would also be part of Cedric’s collection.
“Would you care to join me for a glass of wine?” asked Cedric. “Châteauneuf-du-Pape 1959, which from the expression on your face I have a feeling you may have earned.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Seb as he sank into the nearest chair. Cedric handed him a glass and took the seat opposite him.
“When you’ve caught your breath, take me through the day, slowly.”
Seb took a sip. Not a vintage Mr. Ramsey would be serving at the Shifnal Arms that evening.
When Seb came to the end of his tale twenty minutes later, Cedric remarked, “Swann sounds to me like a shrewd old cove. I have a feeling I’d like him. But what did you learn from the encounter?�
�� A question he had frequently posed when Seb had been his personal assistant.
“Just because a man is physically frail, doesn’t mean his mind isn’t still sharp.”
“Good. Anything else?”
“The importance of reputation.”
“Your father’s, in this case,” Cedric reminded him. “If you get nothing else out of today, Seb, that lesson alone will have made your journey to Shifnal worthwhile. However, now I have to face the fact that one of my most senior members of staff may be dealing behind my back.” He took a sip of wine before he continued. “It is possible, of course, that Sloane will have a simple explanation, but somehow I doubt it.”
Seb suppressed a smile. “But shouldn’t we do something about the deal, now we know what the government has in mind?”
“All in good time. First I’ll need to have a word with Ralph Vaughan, because he’s not going to be pleased when I withdraw the bank’s offer, and he’ll be even more angry when I tell him the reason why.”
“But won’t he simply accept one of the lower offers?”
“Not if he thinks there’s still a chance he might get a higher price if he hangs on for a few more days.”
“And Mr. Swann?”
“I’m tempted to give him the £8,234 whatever happens. I think he’s earned it.” Cedric took another sip of wine before he added, “But since there’s nothing else we can do tonight, Seb, I suggest you go home. In fact, as all hell is going to break loose tomorrow, perhaps it might be wise for you to take the day off and stay as far away from the office as possible. But report to me first thing on Monday morning, as I have a feeling you could be on your way back to Shropshire.”
As they left the room and walked down the corridor toward the front door, Cedric said, “I hope you didn’t have anything planned for this evening?”
Nothing special, thought Seb. I was just going to take Samantha out to dinner and ask her to marry me.
11
ONCE SEBASTIAN realized that he wouldn’t be expected back at the office before Monday morning, he began to plan a surprise weekend for Samantha. He spent the morning booking trains, planes, hotels, and even checked the opening times of the Rijksmuseum. He wanted the weekend in Amsterdam to be perfect, so when they emerged from customs, he ignored the signs for buses and trains and headed straight for the taxi rank.
“Cedric must have been pleased when you discovered what Sloane was up to,” said Sam as the cab joined the traffic making its way out of the airport. “What do you think will happen next?”
“I expect Sloane will be sacked around five o’clock this afternoon.”
“Why five this afternoon?”
“That’s when he was hoping to close the Shifnal Farm deal.”
“There’s almost an element of Greek tragedy about that,” said Sam. “So, with a bit of luck, Sloane will be gone by the time you turn up for work on Monday.”
“Almost certainly, because Cedric asked me to report to him first thing.”
“Do you think you’ll get Sloane’s job?” asked Sam as the cab headed on to the motorway.
“Possibly. But it’s only likely to be a temporary appointment while Cedric looks for someone more experienced.”
“But if you managed to pull off the Shifnal deal, he might not bother to look for someone else.”
“That’s also a possibility, and I wouldn’t be surprised to find I was on a train back to Shrewsbury on Monday. Did he go left around that roundabout?”
“No, right,” said Sam, laughing. “Don’t forget we’re on the continent.” She turned to Seb, who was clinging on to the front seat, and placed a hand on his leg. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I sometimes forget about that dreadful accident.”
“I’m fine,” said Seb.
“I like the sound of Mr. Swann. Perhaps it would be wise to keep him on your side.”
“Cedric agrees with you. And if we pull off the deal, we’ll probably end up having to build his school a concert hall,” Seb added as they entered the outskirts of the city.
“I assume we’re staying at the Amstel?” said Sam as the deluxe five-star hotel overlooking the Amstel river loomed up in front of them.
“Not this time, that will have to wait until I’m chairman of the bank. But until then, it’s the Pension De Kanaal, a well-known one-star guest house frequented by the up-and-coming.”
Sam smiled as the taxi drew up outside a little guest house wedged between a greengrocer and an Indonesian restaurant. “Far better than the Amstel,” she declared as they walked into the cramped lobby. Once they’d checked in, Seb lugged their bags up to the top floor, as the pension didn’t have a lift or a porter. He unlocked the door of their room and switched on the light.
“Palatial,” Sam declared.
Seb couldn’t believe how small the room was. There was only just enough space for them to stand on each side of the double bed. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I wanted this weekend to be just perfect.”
Sam took him in her arms. “You are a silly thing at times. This is perfect. I prefer being up-and-coming. Gives us something to look forward to.”
Seb fell back on the bed. “I know what I’m looking forward to.”
“A visit to the Rijksmuseum?” suggested Sam.
* * *
“You wanted to see me?” said Sloane, as he marched into the chairman’s office. He didn’t wait to be offered a seat.
Cedric looked up at the head of his property division, but didn’t smile. “I’ve just finished reading your monthly report.”
“Up two point two percent on last month,” Sloane reminded him.
“Very impressive. But I wonder if you might have done even better if…”
“If what, chairman?” said Sloane abruptly.
“If Shifnal Farm had also been included in your report,” said Cedric, picking up a brochure from his desk.
“Shifnal Farm? Are you sure that’s one of my properties, and not Clifton’s?” said Sloane, nervously touching the knot of his tie.
“I’m absolutely certain it’s one of your properties, Sloane. What I can’t be sure about is whether it’s one of the bank’s.”
“What are you getting at?” said Sloane, suddenly on the defensive.
“When I called Ralph Vaughan, the senior partner of Savills, a few moments ago, he confirmed that you’d put in a bid of one point six million pounds for the property, with the bank acting as guarantor.”
Sloane shifted uneasily in his chair. “You’re quite right, chairman, but as the deal hasn’t finally been closed, you won’t have all the details until I send you next month’s report.”
“One of the details that will take some explaining is why the account is registered to a client in Zurich.”
“Ah, yes,” said Sloane. “Now I remember. You’re quite right, we were acting for a Swiss client who prefers anonymity, but the bank charges three percent commission on every deal we carry out for that particular customer.”
“And it didn’t take a great deal of research,” said Cedric, patting a pile of papers on the desk in front of him, “to discover that that particular client has conducted another six transactions during the past year, and made himself a handsome profit.”
“But isn’t that what my department is supposed to do?” protested Sloane. “Make profits for our clients, while at the same time earning the bank a handsome commission?”
“It is indeed,” said Cedric, trying to remain calm. “It’s just a pity the Swiss client’s account is in your name.”
“How can you possibly know that,” blurted out Sloane, “when client accounts in Switzerland are not named but numbered?”
“I didn’t. But you’ve just confirmed my worst fears, so your number is up.”
Sloane leapt from his chair. “I’ve made a twenty-three percent profit for the bank over the past ten months.”
“And if my calculations are correct,” came back Cedric, “you’ve made another forty-one percent for yourself during the
same period. And I have a feeling Shifnal Farm was going to be your biggest payday yet.”
Sloane collapsed back in his chair, a look of desperation on his face. “But…”
“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” continued Cedric, “but this is one deal you’re not going to pull off for your Swiss client, because I called Mr. Vaughan at Savills a few minutes ago and withdrew our bid for Shifnal Farm.”
“But we could have made a massive profit on that deal,” said Sloane, now staring defiantly at the chairman. “Possibly as much as a million pounds.”
“I don’t think you mean we,” said Cedric, “I think you mean you. Although it was the bank’s money you were putting up as collateral, not your own.”
“But you only know half the facts.”
“I can assure you, Sloane, that thanks to Mr. Swann, I know all the facts.”
Sloane rose slowly from his seat.
“You are a stupid old man,” he said, spitting out the words. “You’re out of touch, and you don’t begin to understand modern banking. The sooner you make way for a younger man, the better.”
“No doubt in time I will,” said Cedric, as he stood up to face his adversary, “but of one thing I’m certain, that young man is no longer going to be you.”
“You’ll live to regret this,” said Sloane, leaning across the desk and eyeballing the chairman.
“Don’t waste your time threatening me, Sloane. Far bigger men than you have tried and failed,” said Cedric, his voice rising with every word. “There’s only one thing left for you to do, and that’s make sure you’ve cleared your desk and are off the premises within thirty minutes, because if you’re not, I’ll personally put your belongings out on the pavement for every passerby to see.”
“You’ll be hearing from my lawyers,” shouted Sloane, as he turned to leave.
“I don’t think so, unless you plan to spend the next few years in prison, because I can assure you, once this stupid old man has reported your behavior to the ethics committee of the Bank of England, you’ll never work in the City again.”
Sloane turned back, his face as white as a sheet and, like a gambler with only one chip left, spun the wheel for the last time. “But I could still make the bank a fortune, if you’ll only—”
Mightier Than the Sword Page 10
