Jeffrey Archer - A Prisoner Of Birth

"They must have spotted something I missed," said Munro.

"Why don't you call de Coubertin and ask him what it was?"

"That man wouldn't admit he'd ever met your uncle, let alone seen your grandfather's will. Still, now that you have almost sixty million dollars in the bank, I presume you'll want me to defend all the writs?"

"I wonder what Nick would have done," mumbled Danny as he fell into a deep sleep.

Munro raised an eyebrow, but didn't press his client further when he remembered that Sir Nicholas hadn't been to bed the previous night.

Danny woke with a start when the wheels touched down at Heathrow. He and Munro were among the first to disembark from the aircraft. As they walked down the steps they were surprised to see three policemen standing on the tarmac. Munro noticed that they were not carrying machine guns, so they couldn't be security. As Danny's foot touched the bottom step two of the policemen grabbed him, while the third pinned his arms behind his back and handcuffed him.

"You're under arrest, Moncrieff," said one of them as they marched him off.

"On what charge?" demanded Munro, but he didn't get a response because the police car, siren blaring, was already speeding away.

Danny had spent most days since his release wondering when they'd finally catch up with him. The only surprise was that they'd called him Moncrieff.

Beth could no longer bear to look at her father, whom she hadn't spoken to for days. Despite being forewarned by the doctor, she couldn't believe how emaciated he'd become in such a short time.

Father Michael had visited his parishioner every day since he had been bedridden, and that morning he had asked Beth's mother to gather the family and close friends around the bedside that evening, as he could no longer delay conducting the last rites.

"Beth."

Beth was taken by surprise when her father spoke. "Yes, Dad," she said, taking his hand.

"Who's running the garage?" he asked in a piping voice that was almost inaudible.

"Trevor Sutton," she replied softly.

"He's not up to it. You'll have to appoint someone else, and soon."

"I will, Dad," Beth replied dutifully. She didn't tell him that no one else wanted the job.

"Are we alone?" he asked after a long pause.

"Yes, Dad. Mum's in the front room talking to Mrs…"

"Mrs. Cartwright?"

"Yes," admitted Beth.

"Thank God for her common sense." Her father paused to take another breath before adding, "Which you've inherited."

Beth smiled. Even the effort of talking was now almost beyond him. "Tell Harry," he suddenly said, his voice even weaker, "I'd like to see them both before I die."

Beth had stopped saying "You're not going to die" some time ago, and simply whispered in his ear, "Of course I will, Dad."

Another long pause, another struggle for breath, before he whispered, "Promise me one thing."

"Anything."

He gripped his daughter's hand. "You'll fight on to clear his name." The grip suddenly weakened, and his hand went limp.

"I will," said Beth, although she knew he couldn't hear her.

MR. MUNRO'S OFFICE had left several messages on his mobile asking him to call urgently. He had other things on his mind.

Sir Nicholas had been whisked off in a police car to spend the night in a cell at Paddington Green police station. When Mr. Munro left him, he made his way by taxi to the Caledonian Club in Belgravia. He blamed himself for not remembering that Sir Nicholas was still on probation and was not allowed to leave the country. Perhaps it was simply that he could never think of him as a criminal.

When Munro arrived at his club just after eleven-thirty, he found Miss Davenport waiting for him in the guest lounge. The first thing he needed to ascertain, and very quickly, was whether she was up to the job. That took him about five minutes. He had rarely come across anyone who grasped the salient points of a case so quickly. She asked all the right questions and he could only hope that Sir Nicholas had all the right answers. By the time they parted, just after midnight, Munro was in no doubt that his client was in good hands.

Sarah Davenport hadn't needed to remind Munro of the court's attitude to prisoners who broke their parole conditions, and how rarely exceptions were made, especially when it came to traveling abroad without seeking approval from their probation officer. Both she and Munro were fully aware that a judge would probably send Nick back to prison to complete the remaining four years of his sentence. Miss Davenport would of course plead "mitigating circumstances," but she wasn't at all optimistic about the outcome. Munro had never cared for lawyers who were optimistic. She promised to call him in Dunbroath the moment the judge had delivered his verdict.

As Munro was about to make his way upstairs to his room, the porter told him there was another message, to call his son as soon as possible.

"So what's so urgent?" was Munro's first question as he sat on the end of the bed.

"Galbraith has withdrawn all his pending writs," whispered Hamish Munro, not wanting to wake his wife, "as well as the trespass order demanding that Sir Nicholas vacate his home in The Boltons within thirty days. Is this total capitulation, Dad, or am I missing something?" he asked after he'd quietly closed the bathroom door.

"The latter, I fear, my boy. Galbraith's done no more than sacrifice the irrelevant in order to capture the only prize that's really worth having."

"Getting the court to legitimize Sir Alexander's second will?"

"You've got it in one," said Munro. "If he is able to prove that Sir Alexander's new will leaving everything to his brother Angus supersedes any previous wills, then it will be Hugo Moncrieff, and not Sir Nicholas, who inherits the estate, including a bank account in Switzerland that is now showing a balance of at least $57,500,000."

"Galbraith must be confident that the second will is genuine?"

"He may well be, but I know someone else who isn't quite so confident."

"By the way, Dad, Galbraith called again just as I was leaving the office. He wanted to know when you'd be returning to Scotland."

"Did he indeed?" said Munro. "Which begs the question, how did he know I wasn't in Scotland?"

"When I told you that I hoped we'd meet again," said Sarah, "an interview room at Paddington Green police station wasn't exactly what I had in mind." Danny smiled ruefully as he looked across the small wooden table at his new solicitor. Munro had explained that he could not represent him in an English court of law, however, he could recommend-"No," Danny had responded, "I know exactly who I want to represent me."

"I'm flattered," Sarah continued, "that when you found yourself in need of legal advice, I was your first choice."

"You were my only choice," admitted Danny. "I don't know any other solicitors." He regretted his words the moment he'd said them.

"And to think I've been up half the night-"

"I'm sorry," said Danny. "That's not what I meant. It's just that Mr. Munro told me-"

"I know what Mr. Munro told you," said Sarah with a smile. "Now, we don't have any time to waste. You'll be up in front of the judge at ten o'clock, and although Mr. Munro has fully briefed me on what you've been up to for the past couple of days, I still have a few questions of my own that need answering, as I don't want to be taken by surprise once we're in the court. So please be frank-and by that I mean honest. Have you at any time in the past twelve months traveled abroad, other than on this one occasion when you visited Geneva?"

"No," Danny replied.

"Have you failed to attend any meetings with your probation officer since you left prison?"