During a sleepless weekend, Emma occupied herself answering letters, reading, even polishing some of the family silver, but she was never more than a few paces away from the phone.
Sebastian rang on Saturday morning and when she heard his voice she thought for a moment, just a moment, that it was Harry.
“It’s ours to lose,” was the expression Sir Edward used during the consultation with Lady Virginia in his chambers on the Friday evening. He advised her to spend a quiet weekend, no late nights, and not to drink too much. She had to be rested, calm, and ready to do battle with Trelford when she stepped into the witness box on Monday morning.
“Just confirm that you always allowed Major Fisher, your professional advisor, to handle anything to do with Barrington’s. ‘At arm’s length,’” was the phrase he kept repeating. “You’ve never heard of Mr. Benny Driscoll, and it came as a great shock when you discovered that Cedric Hardcastle had been dumping all his shares on the market the weekend before the AGM. You simply felt, as a stockholder, that Mrs. Clifton should tell you the truth and not fob you off with a self-serving platitude. And whatever you do, don’t rise to Trelford’s bait, because he’ll try to tickle you under the chin like a trout. Swim in the deep water and don’t be tempted to come up to the surface because, if you do, he’ll hook you and slowly reel you in. And finally, just because things have gone well for us so far, that doesn’t mean you should become overconfident. I’ve seen far too many cases lost on the last day of the trial by a client who thought they’d already won. Remember,” he repeated, “it’s ours to lose.”
Sebastian spent most of his weekend at the bank, trying to catch up with a backlog of unanswered correspondence and dozens of “urgent” queries that Rachel had left in his in-tray. It took all of Saturday morning just to tackle the first pile.
Mr. Bishara’s inspired choice as the new chairman of Farthings had been greeted in the City with acclamation, which made Seb’s life much easier. A few customers closed their accounts when Sloane departed, but many more returned when they discovered his successor would be Ross Buchanan: an experienced, shrewd operator, with bottom, was how the Sunday Times described him.
Sebastian called his mother just before lunch on Saturday and tried to reassure her that there was nothing for her to worry about.
“He probably can’t get through. Can you imagine what the Russian telephone service must be like?”
But he wasn’t convinced by his own words. His father had expressly told him he would be back in time for the trial, and he couldn’t help remembering one of his papa’s favorite maxims, “There’s only one excuse to be late for a lady: death.”
Seb grabbed a quick lunch with Vic Kaufman, who was worried about his own father, but for a different reason. It was the first time he’d mentioned Alzheimer’s.
“I’m becoming painfully aware that Dad is a one-man band. He beats the big drum while the rest of us are occasionally allowed to bang the cymbals. Perhaps the time has come for Farthings and Kaufman’s to consider a merger.”
Seb couldn’t pretend that the idea hadn’t crossed his mind since he’d become deputy chairman, but Vic’s suggestion couldn’t have come at a worse time, while he had so many other things on his mind.
“Let’s talk about it as soon as the trial is over. And by the way,” Seb added, “be sure to keep a close eye on Sloane because rumor in the City is that he’s also showing a keen interest in your father’s health.”
Seb was back behind his desk just after two o’clock and went on attacking the pile of unopened mail for the rest of the day. He didn’t get home until after midnight.
A security man let him into the bank on Sunday morning, but it wasn’t until late on Sunday afternoon that he came across a cream envelope marked PRIVATE & CONFIDENTIAL, with six George Washington stamps in the top right-hand corner. He ripped it open and read a letter from Rosemary Wolfe. How could he possibly take time off to go to America now? How could he possibly not?
Giles did as he was told. He spent Saturday morning walking up and down Broadmead carrying a large, empty Marks and Spencer shopping bag. He shook hands with anyone who stopped to talk to him about the dreadful Conservative government, and that awful Ted Heath. If anyone raised the subject of Major Fisher, he remained diplomatic.
“I wish you were still our MP.”
“If only I’d known, I would never have voted for him.”
“It’s a scandal. The damn man ought to resign,” to which Giles responded with a well-prepared reply: “That’s a decision for Major Fisher and his constituency party to make, so we’ll just have to wait and see.”
Later, he sat at the bar of a packed, noisy pub and had a ploughman’s lunch with Griff, washed down with a pint of Somerset cider.
“If Fisher resigns and a by-election is called,” said Griff, “I’ve already told the Bristol Evening News that the local Labour party won’t be interviewing anyone other than the former member.”
“Cheers,” said Giles, raising his glass. “How did you manage that?”
“Twisted a few arms, made the odd threat, offered the occasional bribe, and promised the chairman an MBE.”
“Nothing new then?”
“Except that I did remind the committee that if the Tories are going to have a new name on the ballot paper, perhaps we should stick with one the voters are familiar with.”
“What are you doing about the increased aircraft noise what’s comin’ out of Filton? It’s a bloody disgrace!”
“I’m no longer your MP,” Giles reminded the man politely as he headed toward the door.
“I didn’t know that. When did that happen?”
Even Griff had the grace to laugh. After they had left the pub they both donned their blue and white scarves and along with six thousand other supporters watched Bristol Rovers beat Chesterfield 3–2.
In the evening, Emma came to Barrington Hall for dinner, but she wasn’t very good company. She left long before Marsden served coffee.
Giles settled down in his grandfather’s favorite chair in the drawing room, a brandy in one hand, a cigar in the other. He was thinking about Karin when the phone rang. He grabbed it, hoping to hear Harry’s voice on the other end of the line, but it was Griff. Who else would call him at that time of night? When Griff told him the news about Fisher, Giles felt sorry for the man for the first time in his life.
Mr. Trelford spent his weekend preparing for Lady Virginia’s cross-examination. But it wasn’t proving easy. She would have learned from Fisher’s mistake, and he could hear Eddie Makepeace advising her to remain calm at all times and not to let him goad her. However hard he tried, he couldn’t come up with a ploy to break through her defense.
The wastepaper basket was full, and the A4 pad in front of him was blank. How could he demonstrate to the jury that Emma’s mother had been right when she compared Virginia to her Siamese cat, Cleopatra? They are both beautiful, well-groomed, vain, cunning, manipulative predators, who assume that everyone else was put on earth to serve them.
It was two o’clock in the morning and he was going over some old Barrington’s boardroom minutes when he came up with a new line of questioning.