“I’m so sorry to trouble you at a time like this, Mrs. Hardcastle, but we both know that Cedric would have expected nothing less of me.”
Beryl Hardcastle drew her woollen shawl tightly around her and shrank back, almost disappearing into the large leather armchair.
“What do you need me to do?” she whispered.
“Nothing too demanding,” said Sloane. “Just a couple of documents that need to be signed, and then I know the Reverend Johnson is waiting to take you through the order of service. His only concern is that the church won’t be large enough to accommodate the local community as well as all Cedric’s friends and colleagues who will be traveling up from London on Thursday.”
“He wouldn’t have wanted them to miss a day’s work for his sake,” said Beryl.
“I didn’t have the heart to stop them.”
“That’s very considerate of you.”
“It’s no more than he deserves,” said Sloane. “But there is still one small matter that needs to be dealt with.” He extracted three thick documents from his briefcase. “I just need your signature, so the bank can carry on with its day-to-day business.”
“Can it wait until this afternoon?” asked Beryl. “My son Arnold is on his way up from London. As you probably know, he’s a QC, and he usually advises me on any matters concerning the bank.”
“I fear not,” said Sloane. “I’ll have to take the two o’clock train back to London if I’m to keep all the appointments Mr. Hardcastle had scheduled. If it would help, I’ll happily send copies of the documents round to Arnold’s chambers as soon as I get back to the bank.” He took her by the hand. “I just need three signatures, Mrs. Hardcastle. But by all means read through the documents if you are in any doubt.”
“I suppose it will be all right,” Beryl said, taking the pen Sloane handed to her and making no attempt to read the densely typed small print. Sloane left the room and asked the vicar to join them. He then knelt down beside Mrs. Hardcastle, turned to the last page of the first document and placed a finger on the dotted line. Beryl signed all three documents in the presence of the Reverend Johnson, who innocently witnessed her signature.
“I look forward to seeing you again on Thursday,” said Sloane, getting up off his knees, “when we will recall with admiration and gratitude all that Cedric achieved in his remarkable life.”
He left the old lady with the vicar.
“Mr. Clifton, can you tell me where you were at five o’clock on Friday evening?”
“I was in Amsterdam with my girlfriend, Samantha, visiting the Rijksmuseum.”
“When did you last see Mr. Cedric Hardcastle?”
“I went to his home in Cadogan Place just after eight on Thursday evening, having returned from Shifnal in Shropshire.”
“May I ask why Mr. Hardcastle wanted you to visit him outside working hours, when you could have seen him at the office the following morning?”
Sebastian spent a little time considering his response, well aware that all he needed to say was that it was a private matter concerning the bank, and the inspector would have to move on.
“I was checking on a deal, where the chairman had reason to believe that a senior member of staff had been working behind his back.”
“And did you discover that the person was concerned working behind Mr. Hardcastle’s back?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Was that senior member of staff Mr. Adrian Sloane, by any chance?”
Seb remained silent.
“What was Mr. Hardcastle’s attitude, after you told him what you’d found out?”
“He warned me that he intended to sack the person concerned the following day, and advised me to be as far away from the office as possible when he did so.”
“Because he was going to sack your boss?”
“Which is why I was in Amsterdam on Friday evening,” said Seb, ignoring the question. “Which I now regret.”
“Why?”
“Because if I’d gone to the office that day, I just might have been able to save Mr. Hardcastle.”
“Do you believe Mr. Sloane would have saved him, faced with the same circumstances?”
“My father always says that a policeman should never ask a hypothetical question.”
“Not all of us can solve every crime quite as easily as Inspector Warwick.”
“Do you think Sloane murdered Mr. Hardcastle?” asked Seb.
“No, I don’t,” said the inspector. “Although it’s just possible that he could have saved his life. But even Inspector Warwick would find that hard to prove.”
The Rt. Rev. Ashley Tadworth, Bishop of Huddersfield, climbed the half-dozen steps and took his place in the pulpit, during the last verse of “Abide With Me.”
He looked down at the packed congregation and waited until everyone was settled. Some, who hadn’t been able to find a seat, were standing in the aisles, while others, who’d arrived late, were crammed together at the back of the church. It was a mark of the man.
“Funerals are, naturally, sad events,” began the bishop. “Even more so when the departed has achieved little more than leading a blameless life, which can make delivering their eulogy a difficult task. That was not my problem when I prepared my address on the life, the exemplary life, of Cedric Arthur Hardcastle.
“If you were to liken Cedric’s life to a bank statement, he left this world with every account in credit. Where do I begin, to tell you the unlikely tale of this remarkable Yorkshireman?
“Cedric left school at the age of fifteen and joined his father at Farthings Bank. He always called his father ‘sir,’ both at work and at home. In fact, his father retired just in time not to have to call his son ‘sir.’”
A little laughter broke out among the congregation.
“Cedric began his working life as a junior trainee. Two years later he became a teller, even before he was old enough to open a bank account. From there he progressed to undermanager, branch manager, and later, area controller, before becoming the youngest director in the bank’s history. And frankly no one was surprised when he became chairman of the bank at the age of forty-two, a position he held for the past twenty-three years, during which time he took Farthings from being a local bank in a small town in Yorkshire to one of the most respected financial institutions in the City of London.
“But something that would not have changed, even if Cedric had become chairman of the Bank of England, was his constant refrain that if you take care of the pennies, the pounds will take care of themselves.”
“Do you think we’ve got away with it?” asked Sloane nervously.
“If, by that, you’re asking if everything you’ve done in the past four days is legal and above board, the answer is yes.”
“Do we have a quorum?”
“We do,” said Malcolm Atkins, the bank’s chief legal advisor. “The managing director, the company secretary, and six nonexecutive directors are waiting for you in the boardroom. Mind you,” he added, “I’d be fascinated to know what you said to them when they suggested that perhaps they ought to be attending a funeral in Huddersfield today rather than a board meeting in London.”
“I told them quite simply that the choice was theirs. They could vote for a place in this world or the next.”
Atkins smiled and checked his watch. “We should join them. It’s almost ten.”
The two men left Sloane’s office and walked silently down the thickly carpeted corridor. When Sloane entered the boardroom, everyone stood, just as they’d always done for the late chairman.
“Gentlemen,” said the company secretary once they had all settled. “This extraordinary meeting has been called for one purpose, namely...”