Jeffrey Archer - Mightier than the Sword

“I’m delighted to second that motion,” said Desmond Mellor, a recently appointed non-executive director.

“Those in favor?” said the company secretary. Eight hands shot up. “I declare the motion carried unanimously.”

Sloane rose slowly to his feet. “Gentlemen. Allow me to begin by thanking you for the confidence you have shown by electing me as the next chairman of Farthings. Cedric Hardcastle’s shoes are not easy ones to step into. I replace a man who left us in tragic circumstances. A man we all assumed would be with us for many years to come. A man I could not have admired more. A man I considered not only a colleague, but a friend, which makes me all the more proud to pick up his baton and carry it on the next leg of the bank’s race. I respectfully suggest that we all rise, and bow our heads in memory of a great man.”

“But ultimately,” continued the bishop, “Cedric Hardcastle will best be remembered as a family man. He loved Beryl from the day she gave him an extra third of a pint when she was the milk monitor at their primary school in Huddersfield, and he could not have been more proud when their only son, Arnold, became a QC. Although he could never understand why the lad had chosen Oxford, and not Leeds, to complete his education.

“Allow me to end by summing up my feelings for one of my oldest and dearest friends with the words from the epitaph on Sir Thomas Fairfax by the Duke of Buckingham:

He never knew what envy was, nor hate;

His soul was filled with worth and honesty,

And with another thing besides, quite out of date,

Called modesty. ”

Malcolm Atkins raised a glass of champagne.

“To the new chairman of Farthings,” he toasted, as Sloane sat in the chair behind Cedric’s desk for the first time. “So, what will be your first executive action?”

“Make sure we close the Shifnal deal before anyone else works out why it’s so cheap at one point six million.”

“And your second?” asked Mellor.

“Sack Sebastian Clifton,” he spat out, “along with anyone else who was close to Hardcastle and went along with his outdated philosophy. This bank is about to join the real world, where profits, not people, will be its only mantra. And if any customers threaten to move their account, let them, especially if they’re from Yorkshire. From now on, the bank’s motto will be, If you’ve only got pennies, don’t bother to bank with us. ”

Sebastian bowed his head as the pallbearers lowered the coffin into the grave so no one would see his tears. Ross Buchanan didn’t attempt to hide his feelings. Emma and Harry held hands. They had all lost a good and wise friend.

As they walked slowly away from the graveside, Arnold Hardcastle and his mother joined them.

“Why wasn’t Adrian Sloane here?” asked Ross. “Not to mention half a dozen other directors?”

“Father wouldn’t have missed Sloane,” said Arnold. “He was just about to sack him before he died.”

“He told you that?” said Ross.

“Yes. He rang me early on Friday morning to find out what the legal position was if the head of a department was caught using the bank’s money to carry out private deals.”

“Did he say which head of department?” asked Ross.

“He didn’t need to.”

“Did you say six directors?” interrupted Emma.

“Yes,” said Ross. “Why’s that important?”

“It constitutes a quorum. If Cedric were still alive, he would have spotted what Sloane was up to.”

“Oh my God. Now I realize why he needed me to sign those documents,” said Beryl. “Cedric will never forgive me.”

“Like you, I’m appalled, Mother, but don’t worry, you still own fifty-one percent of the bank.”

“Can someone kindly explain in simple English,” asked Harry, “what you’re all talking about?”

“Adrian Sloane has just appointed himself as the new chairman of Farthings,” said Sebastian. “Where’s the nearest phone?”

Sebastian checked his watch. Just enough time to make one call. He was relieved to find the only phone box within sight was empty, and wasn’t out of order. He dialed a number he knew by heart.

“Victor Kaufman.”

“Vic, it’s Seb.”

“Seb, hi. You sound as if you’re phoning from the other side of the world.”

“Not quite. I’m at Huddersfield station. I’ve just been to Cedric Hardcastle’s funeral.”

“I read his obituary in today’s FT. That was one hell of a man you were working for.”

“You don’t know the half of it. Which is why I’m calling. I need to see your father urgently.”

“Just give his secretary a call, and I’ll make sure she fixes an appointment.”

“What I want to discuss can’t wait. I need to see him this evening, tomorrow morning at the latest.”

“Am I sensing a big deal?”

“The biggest ever to cross my desk.”

“Then I’ll speak to him immediately. When will you be back in London?”

“My train’s due to arrive at Euston at ten past four.”

“Give me a call from the station and I’ll—”

A shrill whistle blew and Seb turned to see a green flag waving. He dropped the phone, ran out on to the platform, and jumped onto the moving train.

He took a seat at the rear of the carriage and, once he’d got his breath back, he thought about how he’d first met Vic at St. Bede’s, when he’d shared a study with him and Bruno Martinez, and they had become his two closest friends; one the son of an immigrant Jew, and the other the son of an Argentinian arms dealer. Over the years they’d become inseparable. That friendship grew even closer when Seb had ended up with a black eye for defending his Jewish friend, not that he had been altogether sure what a Jew was. Like a blind man, unaware of race or religion, he quickly discovered that prejudice was often taught at the breakfast table.

He turned his attention to the sage advice his mother had given him just before she and Dad had driven back to Bristol after the funeral. He knew she was right.

Seb took his time writing a first draft, then a second. By the time the train pulled into Euston, he’d completed a final draft which he hoped would meet with both his mother’s and Cedric’s approval.

Sloane immediately recognized the handwriting. He tore open the envelope and pulled out a letter, becoming angrier with each word he read.

Dear Mr. Sloane,

I cannot believe that even you could stoop so low as to hold a board meeting on the day of Cedric Hardcastle’s funeral, with the sole purpose of appointing yourself chairman. Unlike me, Cedric would probably not have been surprised by your duplicity.

You may think you’ve got away with it, but I can assure you, you haven’t, because I will not rest until you are exposed for the fraud you are, as we both know you are the last person Cedric would have wanted to succeed him.

After reading this letter, you won’t be surprised to learn that I no longer want to work for an amoral charlatan like you.

Sloane leapt out of his chair, unable to control his temper. He charged into his secretary’s office and shouted, “Is he still in the building?”

“Who?” asked Rachel innocently.

“Clifton, who else?”

“I haven’t seen him since he handed me a letter and asked me to put it on your desk.”

Sloane marched out of his office and down the corridor, still hoping to find Clifton at his desk so he could publicly sack him.

“Where’s Clifton?” he demanded as he strode into Sebastian’s room. Bobby Rushton, Seb’s young assistant, looked up at the new chairman, and was so petrified he couldn’t get any words out. “Are you deaf?” said Sloane. “Didn’t you hear what I said? Where’s Clifton?”