Jeffrey Archer - Mightier than the Sword

“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.”