Jeffrey Archer - Mightier than the Sword

“Mr. Speaker,” the minister began, as he gripped the dispatch box, “I rise to inform the House which route has been selected by my department for the proposed motorway extension that will run through the county of Shropshire.”

If the word SILENCE hadn’t been displayed in bold on the wood-panelled walls, Seb would have leapt in the air when the minister referred to the outskirts of Shifnal, including Shifnal Farm, as a section of the route for the proposed new motorway.

Once the minister had dealt with several questions from local members, he resumed his place on the front bench to allow a debate on foreign affairs to begin.

Seb and Vic had no interest in whether the government intended to impose economic sanctions on South Africa, so they slipped quietly out of the Strangers’ Gallery, made their way downstairs to the central lobby, and out onto Parliament Square. That’s when Seb leapt in the air and screamed, “We did it!”

Samantha was reading the Guardian when a sleepy Sebastian appeared for breakfast the following morning.

“Where were you last night?” she asked. “I didn’t even hear you come in.”

“Vic and I were out celebrating. Sorry, I should have called to let you know.”

“Celebrating what?” asked Sam, but Seb didn’t answer as he helped himself to a bowl of cornflakes.

“Could it possibly be that Mr. Swann worked out that the new motorway would go straight through the middle of Shifnal Farm and, to quote the Guardian ,” said Sam, looking down at the article in front of her, “make a small fortune for a handful of speculators?” She handed the newspaper to Seb, who only glanced at the headline.

“You have to understand,” said Seb between mouthfuls, “this means we’ll now have enough money to buy a house in Chelsea.”

“But will there be enough money left over for Mr. Swann to build his theatre in Shifnal?”

“That depends...”

“On what? You gave him your word that if the information he supplied turned out to be correct, you would pay him the £8,234 he needed to complete his theatre.”

“But I only earn four thousand a year,” protested Seb.

“And you’re about to be given a bonus of forty thousand.”

“On which I’ll have to pay capital gains tax.”

“Not on a charitable donation, you won’t.”

“But there was nothing in writing.”

“Seb, did you hear what you just said?”

“In any case,” added Seb quickly, “it’s Mr. Kaufman who will make the small fortune, not me.”

“And it was Mr. Kaufman who took the risk in the first place, and could have lost a small fortune. Whereas you had nothing to lose, and everything to gain.”

“You don’t understand—” began Seb.

“I understand only too well,” said Sam as Seb pushed his bowl aside and got up from the table.

“I ought to be going,” he said. “I’m already late, and I’ve got a lot to do today.”

“Like deciding how to spend the money Mr. Swann has made for you?”

He leaned down to kiss her, but she turned away.

“The truth is, you never had any intention of paying Mr. Swann, did you?”

Seb made no attempt to answer her question as he turned and walked quickly toward the door.

“Can’t you see that if you don’t pay Mr. Swann, you’ll be just as bad as Adrian Sloane?” said Sam with feeling.

Seb didn’t reply as he picked up his briefcase and hurried out of the flat without saying goodbye. Once he was safely out on the street, he hailed a taxi. As it made its way along City Road he began to wonder how long it would be before, like Saul Kaufman, he had his own car and driver. But his mind kept returning to Sam and her words: “you’ll be just as bad as Adrian Sloane.”

He would book a table for two at the Mirabelle tonight, when they would talk about anything but banking. During his lunch break he would visit Mr. Gard in Hatton Garden and buy that marcasite brooch. Then surely Sam would begin to appreciate the advantages of being engaged to Sebastian Clifton.

“Your usual table, Mr. Kaufman?”

Seb wondered how long it would be before the head waiter would say to him, “Your usual table, Mr. Clifton?”

Over lunch in the Grill Room, he told the chairman he’d already spotted one or two other properties whose sellers seemed unaware of their true value.

After a lunch at which he’d drunk a little too much, he took a taxi to Hatton Garden. Mr. Gard opened the safe and pulled out the third tray from the top. Seb was delighted to see it was still there: a Victorian marcasite brooch surrounded by diamonds that he was sure Sam would find irresistible.

In the taxi on his way back to Islington, he felt confident that over dinner at the Mirabelle, he could bring her around to his way of thinking.

When he put the key in the lock, his first thought was, we won’t be living here much longer, but when he opened the door, he was puzzled to find that all the lights were out. Could Sam be attending an evening lecture? The moment he switched on the light, he sensed that something was wrong. Something was missing, but what? He sobered up instantly when he realized that several personal objects, including the photograph of the two of them in Central Park, one of Jessica’s drawings, and Sam’s print of The Night Watch, were nowhere to be seen.

He rushed through to their bedroom and flung open the cupboards on Sam’s side of the bed. Empty. He looked under the bed, to find her suitcases were no longer there.

“No, no,” he screamed as he ran out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, where he saw the envelope. It was propped up against a small red leather box and addressed to Sebastian. He tore it open and pulled out a letter that was written in her strong, bold hand.

Dearest Seb,

This is the most difficult letter I’ve ever had to write in my life, because you were my life. But I fear the man who came to Agnew’s Gallery willing to spend every penny he possessed to buy one of his sister’s drawings is not the same man I had breakfast with this morning.

The man who was so proud to work alongside Cedric Hardcastle and despised everything Adrian Sloane stood for is not the same man who now feels he has no obligation to Mr. Swann, the one person who made it possible for him to receive such a handsome bonus. Have you forgotten Mr. Swann’s words, “If Harry Clifton is your father, that’s good enough for me?”

If only Cedric were alive today, none of this would have happened, because you know he would have made sure you kept your side of the bargain and if you hadn’t he would have kept it for you.

I have no doubt that your career will continue to go from strength to strength, and that you will be an outstanding success at everything you do. But that’s not the kind of success I want to be a part of.

I fell in love with the son of Harry and Emma Clifton, the brother of Jessica Clifton, which is one of the many reasons I wanted to be the wife of Sebastian Clifton. But that man no longer exists. Despite everything, I will treasure our short time together for the rest of my life.

Sebastian fell to his knees, the words of Sam’s father ringing in his ears. “Samantha sets standards, like your mother, that the rest of us normal mortals find hard to live with, unless, like your father, they’re guided by the same moral compass.”

“I’ll see if her ladyship is at home,” said the butler.

What a ridiculous remark, thought Lady Virginia. Morton knows only too well that I’m at home. What he actually means is, I’ll find out if her ladyship wants to talk to you.